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ANNE     PAGE 


ANNE     PAGE 


BY 

NETTA   SYRETT 

AUTHOR   OF   "THE   CHILD   OF   PROMISE,"   ETC. 


MCMIX 


PRINTED  BY 

WILLIAM   CLOWES  AND  SONS,   LIMITED 
LON-DON   AND   BECCLES 


An  righti  reserved 


ANNE     PAGE 


AT  the  hour  between  sunset  and  twilight  Miss 
Page  was  generally  to  be  found  in  her  garden. 

The  long  irregular  front  of  Fairholme 
Court  faced  the  west,  and  before  it,  through 
the  interminable  evenings  of  summer,  was 
spread  the  pageant  of  the  sunset,  the  quiet 
glory  of  the  after-glow,  and  finally  the  tran- 
sition, mysterious,  indefinably  subtle,  from  the 
light  of  day,  to  the  vaporous  purple  of  night. 

It  was  at  this  quiet  end  of  evening  that 
the  garden,  always  beautiful,  took  on  an  added 
grace,  the  dream-like  delicate  charm  which 
belongs  to  the  enchanted  places  of  the  earth 
— places  such  as  Corot  knew,  and  with  a 
magic  equal  to  their  own,  has  transferred  upon 
canvasses  which  hold  for  ever  the  glamour  of 
the  dawn  or  the  mystic  spell  of  twilight. 

The  house,  built  originally  in  the  last 
years  of  Elizabeth,  and  enlarged  in  succeeding 


2  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  i. 

reigns,  was  a  medley  of  incongruous  archi- 
tecture, resulting  in  a  style  delightful  and 
fantastic  enough  for  a  dwelling  in  a  fairy  tale. 
The  latest  wing,  added  in  Georgian  days,  its 
red  brick  toned  now  to  a  restful  mellow  colour, 
imparted  an  air  of  formal  stateliness  to  the 
irregular  but  charming  structure. 

Roses  wreathed  the  latticed  window-panes 
of  the  older  part  of  the  house ;  clematis  rioted 
over  part  of  the  roof  and  climbed  the  chimney- 
stacks.  On  the  sunny  walls  of  the  later  wing 
a  vine  had  been  trained. 

The  door  of  the  panelled  hall  in  the  middle 
of  the  house  opened  upon  a  square  of  flag- 
stones, and  level  with  these,  a  lawn,  its 
smoothness  unspoilt  by  flower-beds,  stretched 
to  a  sunk  fence  from  which  meadowland, 
whose  broad  expanse  was  broken  here  and 
there  by  groups  of  elms,  extended  far  as  the 
eye  could  see  till  its  verge  touched  the  sunset 
sky. 

On  the  lawn  to  the  right  of  the  house,  one 
magnificent  beech  tree  swept  the  ground  with 
its  lower  branches,  and  then  soared  majes- 
tically towards  the  sky.  On  the  left  there 
was  a  group  of  chestnuts.  But,  except  for 
a  small  white  fountain  opposite  the  hall  porch, 
the  lawn  in  its  velvet  softness  was  left 
unadorned. 


CH.  i.  ANNE    PAGE  3 

The  fountain  Miss  Page  had  brought  back 
after  one  of  her  periodical  journeys  to  Italy. 
It  was  a  slight,  graceful  thing,  of  delicate 
workmanship,  its  thread  of  water  falling  from 
a  fluted  shell  into  a  square  marble  basin.  It 
was  a  fountain  beloved  by  the  fan-tailed  pigeons, 
who  from  their  dovecote  behind  the  kitchen 
garden  came  to  it  often  to  drink.  When  they 
perched  on  the  edge  of  the  shell,  or  walked 
near  it  on  the  grass,  their  snowy  tails  out- 
spread, a  hint  of  Italian  courtyards,  a  sort  of 
fragrance  of  Italy,  was  wafted  into  the  English 
garden. 

All  the  flowers  grew  in  secluded  sheltered 
spots,  protected  by  high  walls  or  hedges  of 
yew. 

Away  from  the  lawn,  behind  the  beech 
tree,  a  moss-grown  wall  into  which  a  little 
gate  was  set,  gave  promise  of  scent  and  colour 
within — of  a  garden  enclosed. 

This  particular  enclosure,  one  of  many, 
was  known  as  the  "lavender  garden."  It  was 
arranged  in  the  formal  Dutch  fashion — divided 
into  square  beds  filled  with  pink  monthly 
roses,  each  bed  surrounded  by  a  thick  border 
of  lavender.  A  sundial  stood  in  the  midst, 
and  against  the  sundial,  her  elbows  resting 
upon  its  lichen-stained  plate,  leant  Anne  Page, 
her  face  turned  towards  the  lingering  sunset. 


4  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  I. 

She  was  expecting  friends  to  dinner,  but 
unable  to  resist  the  temptation  of  the  garden, 
she  had  wandered  from  the  drawing-room  into 
the  sweet  evening  air.  She  wore  a  dress  the 
colour  of  which,  in  its  shades  of  grey-green 
and  purple,  might  have  been  suggested  by  the 
lavender  in  the  borders.  It  was  a  graceful 
flowing  dress ;  beautiful  naturally,  inevitably. 
Anne  Page  possessed  the  gift  of  surrounding 
herself  with  everything  that  was  exquisite,  as 
simply  as  a  flower  surrounds  itself  with  leaves 
and  dainty  buds. 

She  was  not  a  young  woman.  She  had 
indeed  travelled  quite  far  on  the  road  that 
leads  from  youth  to  death. 

It  was  even  on  record  that  a  girl  staying 
at  the  vicarage  had  alluded  to  her  as  an  old 
lady. 

Every  one  had  started  with  shocked  sur- 
prise. None  of  Anne  Page's  friends  were 
accustomed  to  consider  her  age. 

To  them,  she  was  just  "beautiful  Miss 
Page."  In  the  same  way,  one  never  thought 
of  analyzing  her  appearance,  nor  of  criticizing 
her  features.  It  would  have  seemed  an  im- 
pertinence. One  felt  vaguely  that  she  would 
have  been  quite  as  lovely  without  any,  for  her 
beauty  was  like  a  rare  effect  of  light  that  has 
no  connection  with  the  object  it  transfigures. 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  5 

Certainly  her  face  had  the  delicacy  of  a 
white  rose.  Certainly  her  eyes  were  blue ;  blue 
as  cornflowers ;  blue  as  the  sea.  But  they 
were  Miss  Page's  eyes,  and  one  instinctively 
compared  them  to  lovely  natural  things. 

She  turned  her  head  as  the  gate  creaked. 

Burks,  ^in  a  frilled  apron  and  a  becoming 
cap  with  streamers,  was  hurrying  up  the  path 
towards  the  sundial. 

"There's  a  carriage  coming  up  the  drive, 
ma'am,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you,  Burks,  I'll  come." 

The  maid  hastened  back,  her  skirts  ruffling 
the  lavender  borders,  and,  gathering  up  the 
filmy  folds  of  her  own  gown,  her  mistress 
followed  her. 

At  the  gate,  she  turned  for  a  last  glance  at 
the  dying  sunset  sky. 

On  her  way  across  the  lawn,  she  noticed, 
with  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  the  beauty  of  the 
trees,  motionless, -dreaming  in  the  dusk.  White 
and  slim  in  the  half-light,  the  little  fountain 
suggested  to  her  a  strayed  nymph,  transfixed 
with  surprise  and  fear  to  find  herself  so  near 
the  haunts  of  man.  Smiling  at  the  fancy, 
Anne  entered  the  drawing-room  by  one  of  the 
long  open  windows,  and  waited  for  her  guests. 

In  a  few  moments,  Burks  admitted  the 
Vicar  and  his  wife. 


6  ANNE   PAGE  CIL  i. 

The  Reverend  George  Carfax  was  of 
the  type  already  somewhat  vieux  jmt  of  the 
muscular  school  of  Christianity. 

Good-looking,  clean-shaven,  bullet-headed, 
his  appearance  was  rather  that  of  a  country 
squire  than  of  a  vicar  of  Christ.  An  excellent 
cricketer,  hearty  in  manner,  sound  in  health, 
he  was  nevertheless  the  ideal  pastor  for  the 
rising  generation  of  youths  and  maidens,  whose 
muscles  were  possibly  better  worth  developing 
than  their  souls. 

His  wife  was  the  dowdy  little  woman,  who 
inevitably  by  a  process  of  natural  selection 
becomes  the  mate  of  the  muscular  Christian. 

In  her  first  youth  she  had  possessed  the  un- 
distinguished prettiness  common  to  thousands 
of  English  girls  whose  character,  composed  of 
negative  qualities,  renders  them  peculiarly  ac- 
ceptable to  the  average  self-assertive  man. 

Now,  at  forty-five,  in  spite  of  her  family  of 
children,  her  figure  was  as  spare  and  meagre  as 
it  had  been  at  twenty,  and  the  gown  she  wore, 
a  black  silk,  slightly  cut  out  at  the  neck,  and 
trimmed  with  cheap  coffee  lace,  was  as  dowdy 
as  any  of  the  dresses  of  her  girlhood. 

Miss  Page  walked  with  a  charming  dignity, 
her  long  gown  moving  over  the  floor  with  a 
soft  frou-frou  suggestive  of  silk,  and  cloudy 
concealed  frills.  Her  appearance  as  she  bent 


CH.  i.  ANNE    PAGE  7 

towards  the  dowdy  little  woman,  made  a  con- 
trast almost  ludicrous,  if  it  had  not  also  been 
somewhat  pathetic. 

Mrs.  Carfax,  innocent  of  contrasts  and  all 
they  implied,  took  her  hand  in  both  of  hers 
with  an  affectionate  movement,  and  in  the 
Vicar's  firm  handshake,  and  in  his  hearty  words 
of  greeting,  the  same  evident  liking  for  their 
hostess  was  expressed. 

"Dr.  and  Mrs.  Dakin,"  said  Burks,  at  the 
door,  and  again  Miss  Page's  smile  welcomed 
the  new-comers. 

She  particularly  liked  the  tall  thin  man 
who  entered.  Dr.  Dakin  was  a  scholar  and  a 
dreamer,  a  man  too  unpractical  by  nature 
adequately  to  cope  with  a  profession  eminently 
practical.  The  doctor  was  only  a  partial 
success  at  Dymfield,  where  a  man  of  the 
Vicar's  stamp,  genial,  a  trifle  blustering,  always 
cheerful,  would  have  inspired  more  confidence 
than  the  dreamy  medical  man,  who  did  not 
treat  illness  in  the  high-handed  fashion  uncon- 
sciously expected  by  his  patients. 

Only  his  success  with  one  or  two  really 
serious  cases  in  the  neighbourhood  preserved 
for  him  some  measure  of  respect,  and  a  general 
concurrence  of  opinion,  that  absent-minded  as 
he  appeared  before  the  milder  forms  of  ailment, 
when  it  came  to  graver  maladies,  Dr.  Dakin 


8  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  i. 

was  presumably  to  be  trusted.  To  no  one 
was  his  lack  of  force  and  "push"  a  greater 
trial  than  to  his  wife,  whose  ambition  for  her 
husband  had  been  a  London  practice,  and  for 
herself  a  smart  amusing  circle  of  acquaintances. 

She  was  a  pretty  little  woman  of  six  or 
seven  and  twenty,  with  soft  dark  hair,  and 
a  slim  figure.  Endowed  with  all  the  nervous 
energy  her  husband  lacked,  she  bore  the  traces 
of  her  discontent  about  her  well-shaped  mouth, 
and  in  the  expression,  exasperated  and  queru- 
lous of  her  brown  eyes. 

They  softened  into  a  wholly  admiring 
glance  however  as  they  rested  on  Miss 
Page. 

"  My  dear  lady,"  she  whispered,  "  that's  the 
most  lovely  dress  I  ever  saw  in  my  life ! 
Where  do  you  get  your  things  ?  And  how- 
ever do  you  manage  to  look  so  delightful  in 
them?" 

Anne  laughed. 

"  Let  me  return  the  compliment.  You  look 
charming,  Madge." 

Mrs.  Dakin  blushed  with  pleasure,  as  she 
turned  to  shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Carfax. 

"We  are  waiting  for  another  guest,"  said 
Miss  Page,  sitting  down  in  one  of  the  big, 
chintz-covered  chairs.  "  Monsieur  Fontenelle, 
who,  as  I  dare  say  you  know,  has  just  been 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  9 

made  President  of  the  International  Art 
Congress." 

Dr.  Dakin  looked  up  quickly  from  the 
examination  of  an  eighteenth-century  fan, 
which  he  recognized  as  a  new  treasure  in  a 
cabinet  filled  with  ivories,  enamel  snuff-boxes, 
old  lace,  old  treasures  of  all  kinds. 

"  Really  ? "  he  exclaimed.  "  That's  most 
interesting.  The  Monsieur  Fontenelle,  in 
fact?" 

"  He's  a  very  old  friend  of  mine,"  said 
Anne. 

"In  England  for  the  opening  of  the  show 
next  week,  of  course  ? " 

"  Yes.  He's  been  staying  for  a  couple  of 
days  at  The  Chase,  and  as  he  goes  to  London 
to-morrow  I  asked  him  to  join  us  this  evening." 

To  none  of  Anne's  visitors  but  the  doctor 
was  the  Frenchman's  name  significant. 

Dymfield  was  not  interested  in  the  world 
of  art.  Very  few  of  its  inhabitants  had  ever 
heard  of  the  International  Art  Congress,  and 
even  if  they  had,  it  would  have  conveyed 
nothing  to  their  minds. 

Nevertheless,  a  tremor  of  excitement  and 
curiosity  passed  over  the  faces  of  Mrs.  Carfax 
and  Mrs.  Dakin. 

Strangers  at  Dymfield  were  rare,  and  a 
visitor  who  was  staying  at  The  Chase,  as  the 


io  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  i. 

guest  of  Lord  Farringchurch  was  on  that 
account  alone,  a  distinguished  if  not  an  alarming 
personality. 

"A  Frenchman!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Carfax. 
"  I  hope  he  speaks  English  ?  "  she  added  below 
her  breath. 

"  Oh,  perfectly,"  Anne  assured  her,  as  the 
door  opened. 

"  Monsieur  Fontenelle  !  " 

Burks,  who  had  frequently  accompanied  her 
mistress  in  foreign  travel,  delivered  the  name 
with  commendable  swing  and  correctness  of 
accent. 

The  man  who  entered  looked  considerably 
younger  than  his  forty-seven  years.  Slight, 
still  elegant  in  figure,  his  face  possessed  the  dis- 
tinction of  clear-cut  features,  combined  with  an 
expression  which  only  the  charm  of  his  smile 
saved  from  a  suspicion  of  arrogance. 

His  hair,  a  little  white  on  the  temples,  was 
thick  and  slightly  wavy.  His  blue  eyes,  keen 
above  a  hawk-like  nose,  gleamed  every  now 
and  then  with  a  trace  of  irony ;  that  irony 
which  has  become  habitual,  the  recognized 
medium  through  which  its  possessor  views  the 
world.  A  shrewd  observer  would  have  guessed 
the  character  represented  by  such  a  face  to  be 
difficult  and  complex.  Instinctively  one  knew 
that  Fran9ois  Fontenelle  would  be  no  very 


en.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  u 

easy  man  to  thwart ;  one  guessed  also  that  he 
might  be  a  man  apt  to  form  his  own  rules 
of  conduct,  to  carve  his  own  path  in  life, 
without  too  much  consideration  for  the  con- 
venience or  the  paths  of  others. 

As  Miss  Page  rose  and  stretched  out  her 
hand,  he  stooped  and  kissed  it  with  the  grace- 
ful ease  of  manner  natural  to  a  Frenchman. 

Mrs.  Carfax  felt  quite  embarrassed. 

"  So  foreign,"  she  thought ;  the  phrase 
expressing  unconscious  disapprobation. 

"  Glad  we  haven't  those  monkey  tricks !  " 
was  her  husband's  half-formed  mental  exclama- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Dakin's  heart  gave  a  curious  little 
flutter  for  which  she  could  not  account,  except 
that  she  liked  the  manners  of  Frenchmen,  and 
was  for  the  moment  acutely  conscious  of  the 
dulness  of  life. 

To  her  husband,  the  action  suddenly  recalled 
the  days  of  Madame  de  Pompadour. 

He  glanced  at  the  fan  he  still  held,  and  his 
mind  wandered  to  a  book  of  that  lady's  period 
which  he  had  long  coveted,  and  had  hitherto 
been  unable  to  obtain. 

Absorbed  in  reverie,  he  missed  Miss  Page's 
formal  introduction,  and  was  only  recalled  to  the 
present  day  by  the  general  movement  following 
the  announcement  that  dinner  was  served. 


12  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  i. 

The  dining-room  at  Fairholme  Court,  in 
the  older  part  of  the  house,  was  a  long,  low 
room  with  casement  windows,  and  carved 
beams  supporting  the  ceiling. 

In  its  midst  the  table  sparkled  with  glass 
and  silver,  arranged  with  studied  care  between 
the  shaded  candles  in  sconces  of  Sheffield 
plate,  and  the  crystal  bowls  of  roses.  It  had 
the  look  of  something  exquisite,  something  in 
fact  which  belonged  to  Miss  Page,  and  was 
marked  with  her  individuality. 

Mrs.  Dakin  made  anxious  notes.  Her 
dinner-table  never  looked  a  work  of  art,  and 
in  the  intervals  of  her  study  of,  and  speculations 
concerning  Monsieur  Fontenelle,  she  wondered 
why.  Several  times  her  glance  wandered  to 
Miss  Page,  whose  eyes  were  bright,  and  whose 
faint  pink  colour  was  rather  deeper  than  usual. 

Did  the  Frenchman  she  wondered,  repre- 
sent Miss  Page's  romance  ?  It  was  strange 
how  little  one  knew  about  Miss  Page. 
Nothing,  in  fact.  Mrs.  Dakin  realized  the  fact 
for  the  first  time  with  a  little  shock  of  surprise. 
But  then  one  never  expected  Miss  Page  to 
talk  about  her  own  affairs.  Quite  naturally, 
inevitably  as  it  seemed,  one  went  to  Miss  Page 
for  advice,  for  sympathy,  for  encouragement 
about  one's  self. 

But  this  man  must  belong  to  the  past  life 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  13 

of  her  hostess,  whatever  it  had  been — some- 
thing charming,  something  gentle,  since  Miss 
Page  had  lived  it.  Of  course  she  had  been 
loved.  She  was  too  pretty  not  to  have  been 
loved.  Had  this  man  loved  her  perhaps  ?  If 
so,  why  had  they  not  married  ? 

Mrs.  Dakin  roused  herself,  and  began  to 
pay  attention  to  the  conversation  to  which,  so 
far,  she  had  only  contributed  mechanical, 
unheeding  remarks.  Indefinitely  she  felt  that 
it  was  on  a  higher  level  than  usual ;  the  sort 
of  conversation  to  which  Dymfield  was  unac- 
customed. 

The  Frenchman  talked  with  the  vivacity 
the  wealth  of  phrase  and  imagery  common  to 
his  race,  and  Miss  Page  talked  too,  eagerly, 
fluently,  leaning  a  little  forward,  as  though 
enjoying  a  much-loved  rarely  indulged  delight. 

Dr.  Dakin,  roused  at  last  from  his  dreaming, 
also  sat  upright,  glancing  from  one  to  the 
other,  throwing  in  now  and  again  a  question 
or  a  comment  which  was  often  seized  upon 
appreciatively  to  form  fresh  material  for  con- 
versation. Mrs.  Dakin  sat  and  wondered, 
mystified,  scarcely  comprehending.  The 
topics  over  which  the  talk  ranged,  abstract 
subjects  for  the  most  part,  illustrated  by 
frequent  references  to  books  ; — novels,  French 
novels  mostly,  of  which  she  sometimes  just 


14  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  i. 

knew  the  titles,  philosophy  of  which  she  had 
never  heard — belonged  to  a  class  of  ideas 
which  as  yet  had  never  appeared  upon  her 
mental  horizon.  She  was  interested,  as  well 
as  overwhelmed,  by  a  new  view  of  her  hostess. 
Miss  Page,  this  brilliant  conversationalist,  this 
subtle  reasoner,  to  whose  words  the  French- 
man, himself  so  fluent,  such  an  acute  critic  and 
thinker,  accorded  a  deference  so  obviously 
spontaneous  and  sincere !  Miss  Page,  who 
would  spend  hours  in  discussing  the  organiza- 
tion of  a  mothers'  meeting,  of  a  local  flower 
show,  of  a  Church  bazaar.  Miss  Page,  to 
whom  one  applied  for  recipes  for  pot  pourri, 
for  dainty  invalid  dishes,  for  remedies  against 
chills.  Miss  Page,  who  suggested  the  fashion 
for  one's  new  summer  muslin,  and  cut  out 
night-shirts  for  the  children  in  the  Cottage 
Hospital ! 

"How  we  must  bore  her!"  was  Mrs.  Dakin's 
involuntary  mental  exclamation.  "  And  how 
well,  how  delightfully  she  disguises  it,"  was 
her  next  reflection. 

She  remembered  other  dinners  at  Fairholme 
Court — dinners  at  which  the  guests  had  dis- 
cussed the  new  curate,  the  latest  book  of  Miss 
Marie  Corelli,  the  village  cricket  match,  the 
fund  for  the  new  organ. 

She    remembered    Miss    Page's    gracious 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  15 

charm  of  manner  on  these  occasions,  her 
apparent  interest  in  each  of  these  trivial 
topics. 

Even  now,  surprised,  uncomprehending  as 
she  was  with  regard  to  most  of  the  conversa- 
tion, she  did  not  fail  to  remark  the  tact  which 
with  a  word,  with  a  question  easy  to  answer, 
she  kept  three  of  her  guests,  at  least,  ostensibly 
within  the  pale  of  the  conversation. 

"  It's  quite  fair.  We  are  evenly  matched, 
to-night.  Our  stupidity  has  always  outweighed 
her  intelligence  before,  so  she  never  had  a 
chance,"  thought  Mrs.  Dakin.  The  bitterness 
of  the  reflection  was  caused  by  the  conviction 
that  it  was  ignorance,  not  lack  of  ability,  which 
kept  her,  at  least,  out  of  discussions  which 
interested  her.  Mrs.  Dakin  was  one  of  those 
women  whom  mental  laziness,  not  lack  of 
brain  quality,  goes  far  to  ruin.  Her  mind, 
naturally  active  and  restless,  was  unemployed. 
She  had  never  trained  herself  to  think. 
To-night,  with  sudden  self-recognition,  she 
regretted  both  circumstances. 

Harry,  she  noticed  it  with  a  curious  sen- 
sation, half  jealousy,  half  pride,  was  not  out  of 
the  talk.  He  was  no  conversationalist,  but  he 
understood,  he  appreciated,  he  contributed. 
That  his  point  of  view  was  valuable,  she 
knew  by  the  brightening  of  Miss  Page's  eyes 


i6  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  i. 

when  he  spoke ;  by  an  occasional  vivacious 
affirmative  nod  from  Monsieur  Fontenelle. 

An  idea,  odd,  staggering  in  its  novelty, 
occurred  to  her. 

"  Perhaps  I  bore  Harry  ?  " 

Never  before  had  this  aspect  of  affairs 
presented  itself  to  her  consciousness,  and  the 
notion  passed  like  a  flash. 

The  conviction  that  the  exhausting  mental 
ailment  of  boredom  belonged  by  right  to  her 
alone,  was  too  firmly  established  to  be  upset 
by  a  fugitive  ridiculous  fancy. 

Again  she  listened. 

The  Frenchman's  eloquence  and  vivacity 
amused  and  excited  her.  He  spoke  rapidly, 
and  though  the  words  were  English,  pro- 
nounced with  only  the  slightest  foreign  accent, 
their  use,  their  handling  was  French. 

Never  before,  for  instance,  had  she  heard 
any  one  utter  at  length  a  panegyric  such  as 
that  to  which  she  was  now  listening.  It  was 
evoked  by  the  name  of  an  author  of  whom  she 
had  never  heard,  and  it  was  the  sort  of  thing 
which  in  a  book  she  was  accustomed  to  skip. 
Spoken  with  the  ease  and  certainty  which 
indicated  a  natural  habit  of  fluent  speech,  it 
amazed  and  impressed  her. 

Never  before  had  she  guessed  that  Miss 
Page  was  witty.  Wit  at  Dymfield  was  not 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  17 

understood ;  it  was  ignored,  passed  over  in 
silence  disapproving  because  uncomprehended. 
Quicker  than  her  neighbours,  Mrs.  Dakin 
realized  that  in  an  argument  on  a  play  of 
Bernard  Shaw's  which  Monsieur  Fontenelle 
had  recently  seen  in  America,  Miss  Page  was 
saying  good  things.  In  opposing  his  view, 
her  raillery,  delicate  and  ingenious,  brought 
a  frequent  smile  to  his  lips,  and  more  than 
once  an  appreciative  burst  of  laughter. 

Mr.  Carfax,  who  had  never  heard  of 
Bernard  Shaw,  asked  for  the  story  of  the 
play. 

His  hostess  told  it  in  a  few  words.  That 
they  were  in  every  respect  well  chosen,  Mrs. 
Dakin,  who  had  also  never  read  the  works 
of  the  latter-day  apostle,  guessed  from  a  faint 
smile  of  admiration,  which  at  various  points 
in  the  narrative  lighted  the  Frenchman's  face. 
Mr.  Carfax  nodded  his  head  approvingly  when 
she  ceased. 

"  Very  good,  I  should  say.  Full  of  common 
sense  and  right  views.  We  want  some  one 
to  elevate  the  stage ;  and  I'm  glad  this  man, 
what's  his  name  ?  Ah  !  Shaw — is  a  Britisher. 
I  believe  in  home-grown  literature ;  something 
that  expresses  the  character  of  the  English 
people.  A  fine,  sturdy  character ;  the  best  in 
the  world." 


i8  ANNE   PAGE  en.  i. 

Miss  Page  rose  without  looking  at  Mon- 
sieur Fontenelle,  whose  smile,  for  greater 
safety,  had  taken  refuge  in  his  eyes. 

Mrs.  Dakin  and  Mrs.  Carfax  followed  her 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  as  though  stricken 
with  fear  lest  the  dinner-table  topics  had  re- 
sulted in  dissatisfaction  for  her  guests,  she 
moved  close  to  Mrs.  Carfax. 

"  I  saw  Sylvia,  to-day,  looking  so  pretty," 
she  began  in  her  gentle,  caressing  voice. 

Mrs.  Carfax  bridled,  half  pleased,  half 
unwilling  to  accept  a  compliment  on  behalf 
of  a  daughter  who  was  unsatisfactory. 

"  Looks  don't  matter  so  much  as  right 
behaviour,"  she  returned.  "  She  displeases 
her  father  very  much  with  what  he  calls  her 
advanced  ideas.  I  don't  know  what  they  are, 
I'm  sure,  except  wanting  to  get  away  from 
a  good  home.  I  wish  you  would  speak  to  her, 
Miss  Page.  She  thinks  so  much  of  you.  You 
might  bring  her  to  her  senses." 

"  Poor  little  Sylvia,"  said  Miss  Page,  softly. 
"  She's  very  young,  my  dear — and  she's  a 
sweet  child  at  heart.  Do  ask  her  to  come 
to  tea  with  me  to-morrow." 

"  I  think  your  French  friend  is  most  in- 
teresting," remarked  Mrs.  Dakin,  suddenly, 
putting  down  her  coffee  cup,  and  taking  a 
seat  beside  Anne  on  the  sofa. 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  19 

Her  hostess  turned  to  her  with  a  pleased 
smile. 

"  I'm  so  glad.  You  are  always  apprecia- 
tive, Madge." 

"  I  never  heard  any  one  talk  like  you  two," 
continued  Mrs.  Dakin,  slowly. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  talked  too  much."  The 
quick  colour  sprang  to  her  cheeks.  "  I  hope 
you  weren't  bored?"  She  included  the  two 
women  in  a  swift,  apologetic  glance.  "  Talking 
too  much  is  an  old  habit  of  mine,  a  habit  of 
long  ago,  which  revives  when  I  see  Frangois. 
I "  she  paused  suddenly. 

"  I  was  never  so  interested  in  my  life,"  said 
Mrs.  Dakin,  with  such  obvious  sincerity  that 
Anne's  face  cleared. 

"Very  clever,  I'm  sure.  Very  clever," 
murmured  Mrs.  Carfax.  "  Tell  me,  my  dear, 
what  shall  I  do  about  Emma  ?  The  girl  gets 
worse  and  worse.  She's  no  good  at  all  as  a 
parlourmaid.  I've  been  thinking  about  her  all 
dinner-time,  and  wondering  whether  I  should 
give  her  notice,  or  whether " 

The  entrance  of  the  three  men  interrupted 
the  heart-searchings  of  Mrs.  Carfax. 

Monsieur  Fontenelle  stood  a  moment  just 
within  the  door.  His  eyes  fell  upon  Mrs. 
Dakin,  who  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa, 
her  slender  little  figure  in  its  white  dress 


20  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  i. 

showing  to  advantage  against  its  coloured 
background. 

A  tremor  of  pleasure  shook  her  as  he  drew 
up  a  chair  of  gilded  cane,  and  leaning  over 
the  arm  of  the  sofa,  began  to  talk  to  her. 

Mr.  Carfax  and  Dr.  Dakin,  who  both  made 
simultaneously  for  Miss  Page's  corner  of  the 
room,  were  met  by  her  with  a  little  amused 
laugh,  to  which  each  responded. 

"  We  can't  both  talk  to  her,"  declared  Mr. 
Carfax,  "  because  of  course  we  each  want  her 
advice." 

"  I  yield  to  you,"  said  the  Doctor,  charac- 
teristically. "  But  you  mustn't  keep  her  too 
long." 

"Time  passes  all  too  quickly  with  Miss 
Page,"  returned  Mr.  Carfax,  with  his  hearty 
laugh.  "  I  can  make  no  promises." 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  consult  me  ?  "  asked 
his  hostess,  turning  to  him  with  her  flattering 
air  of  undivided,  interested  attention. 

"  About  many  things.  There's  that  case  of 
Mrs.  O'Malley's.  It's  really  very  difficult. 
Now,  what  would  you  advise  ?  "  He  recounted 
at  length  a  conversation  he  had  lately  held 
with  the  drunken  old  woman,  on  the  circum- 
stances of  whose  life,  though  upon  this  point 
she  was  silent,  Miss  Page's  knowledge  was 
considerably  fuller  than  his  own. 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  21 

She  listened  thoughtfully,  and  suggested  a 
different  method  of  attack. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Vicar,  his  brow 
clearing.  "  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Anything  else  ? "  asked  Miss  Page. 

"  Oh  well,  yes ;  but  I  haven't  time  for  that 
now.  I  must  come  some  other  day.  I  want 
to  have  a  long  talk  with  you  about  Sylvia.  I 
can't  make  the  girl  out."  He  frowned.  "  She's 
so  restless  and  discontented.  I  can't  imagine 
why  she  doesn't  settle  down  and  be  of  some 
little  assistance  to  her  mother.  The  girl 
annoys  me.  I  have  no  patience  with  the 
modern  shirking  of  home  duties." 

"  Dear  little  Sylvia  I  "  repeated  Miss  Page. 
"  She's  coming  to  tea  with  me  to-morrow.  I 
always  like  talking  to  Sylvia.  She's  so  pretty 
and  charming." 

Mr.  Carfax  looked  a  little  mollified. 
"  There's  Dakin  thinking  I've  overstepped 
my  time-limit,"  he  declared.  "  Come  along, 
Dakin,  your  innings  now." 

The  doctor  approached  Miss  Page's  chair, 
a  smile  on  his  long  thin  face. 

"  I  only  want  you  to  show  me  your 
latest  toys,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  cabinet. 
"  I  see  you  have  one  or  two  new  things 
there." 

She    rose    with    alacrity,    and    in    a    few 


22  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  i. 

moments  they  were  bending  over  and  discuss- 
ing a  piece  of  Battersea  enamel. 

Dr.  Dakin,  also  an  enthusiastic  collector, 
was  especially  interested  in  the  dainty  trifles 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  which  Anne  too 
loved.  It  was  a  period  which  specially  ap- 
pealed to  him,  and  the  conversation  passing 
from  the  frail  things  they  handled — fans  painted 
on  chicken-skin,  ivories,  patch-boxes — soon  ex- 
tended to  books,  many  of  which  he  found 
Anne  possessed. 

Their  conversation  became  engrossing,  and 
Mrs.  Dakin  turned  to  her  companion  with  a 
laugh. 

"My  husband  is  very  happy,"  she'  re- 
marked. 

"  No  wonder,"  he  returned.  "  Every  one 
is  happy  with  Miss  Page." 

"  And  she's  so  pretty,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  The  most  beautiful  woman  of  my  acquaint- 
ance," he  replied  gravely.  "  Because  she  has 
acquired  her  beauty — secreted  it,  in  the  same 
marvellous  way  that  from  hidden  cells  a  rose 
draws  its  colour  and  its  sweetness." 

Mrs.  Dakin  glanced  at  him  curiously. 
"  It  takes  a  Frenchman  to  say  that.  But  it 
describes  Miss  Page,"  she  added. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  curiosity  very 
strong  within  her. 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  23 

"  You  have  known  her  a  long  time  ?  Many 
years  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  first  met  sweet  Anne  Page  twenty  years 
ago,  in  this  very  house." 

He  smiled,  a  quiet  reminiscent  smile. 

"  And  she  wasn't  young  even  then ! " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Dakin,  involuntarily. 

"  Pardon  me.  Anne  Page  was  always 
young,  in  the  sense  that  the  brooks  and 
the  hawthorn-trees  and  the  roses  are  always 
young." 

The  smile  was  still  on  his  lips,  and  Mrs. 
Dakin  blushed. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know,"  she  began  hurriedly. 
"  One  never  thinks  of  age  with  regard  to  her. 
I  didn't  mean  that  exactly." 

"  He  must  have  been  in  love  with  her ! " 
The  idea  ran  into  the  undercurrent  of  her 
thoughts.  "  Perhaps  he  is  still.  It  would  be 
awfully  romantic.  And  not  absurd  at  all," 
she  added,  as  a  sudden  mental  supplement. 
"  Sweet  Anne  Page  is  quite  pretty." 

Aloud,  still  impelled  by  irresistible  curiosity, 
she  went  on  asking  questions. 

"  But  this  house  didn't  belong  to  her  then, 
did  it  ?  We  haven't  been  at  Dymfield  long 
enough,  of  course,  but  the  old  people  in  the 
village  remember  when  Mrs.  Burbage  lived 
here." 


24  ANNE   PAGE  en.  i. 

"Mrs.  Burbage  !  Yes,  I'd  forgotten.  That 
was  the  name." 

"  It  was  quite  a  romantic  story,  wasn't  it  ?  " 
went  on  Mrs.  Dakin,  vivaciously.  "  You  know 
it,  of  course  ?  Miss  Page  was  companion  to  old 
Mrs.  Burbage  for  years  before  she  died.  She 
had  a  nephew,  and  naturally  every  one  imagined 
that  he  would  come  into  the  property.  But  he 
displeased  her  in  some  way,  and  she  left  every- 
thing to  Miss  Page.  At  least,  so  I'm  told.  Is 
it  right  ?  " 

Monsieur  Fontenelle  bowed.  "  I  believe 
so."  He  laughed  suddenly.  "  When  I  first 
knew  the  house,  it  was  horrible.  This  beauti- 
ful room,  for  instance,  was  full  of  antimacassars 
and  wool-work  mats.  The  old  lady  had — how 
do  you  call  it?  Mid-Victorian  —  yes,  Mid- 
Victorian  tastes." 

"  Glass  shades  with  wax  fruits  underneath, 
I  suppose  ?  Rep  curtains  and  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"  Oh,  cttait  affreux ! "  he  agreed,  with  a 
comic  gesture  of  horror. 

"  How  Miss  Page  must  have  enjoyed  re- 
furnishing it !  She  has  such  exquisite  taste, 
hasn't  she  ?  But  the  garden  ?  The  garden 
must  always  have  been  lovely." 

"  It  was  neglected.  Mrs.  Burbage  was  an 
invalid — fortunately.  For  the  garden,  I  mean. 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  25 

But  Anne  had  begun  to  work  her  magic  even 
then.  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  her  she  had 
been  planting  roses  round  a  sundial." 

"  Oh,  in  the  lavender  garden  ?  " 

"  She  took  me  there  this  morning.  The 
rose  hedge  is  very  tall  now,  and  the  rose 
leaves  were  dropping  down  on  to  the  sundial " 
— he  stretched  up  his  arm — "  from  a  height 
like  this,  above  it." 

"  Yes.  Fairholme  Court  is  the  most  beauti- 
ful place  in  the  neighbourhood.  Certainly  the 
most  beautiful  place  I've  ever  seen." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  which 
Mrs.  Dakin  glanced  towards  the  sofa,  to  which 
Anne  had  returned. 

Her  green  and  lavender  gown  fell  in  grace- 
ful folds  round  her  feet.  Against  the  cushions 
of  dim  purple  at  her  back,  her  hair  shone  with 
a  sort  of  moon-lit  radiance.  The  poise  of  her 
head,  the  smile  that  wavered  constantly  near 
her  sweet  mouth,  the  radiance  of  her  blue  eyes, 
above  all  a  certain  dignity,  too  gentle  to  be 
quite  stately,  yet  suggesting  stateliness,  made 
her  a  lovely  and  a  gracious  figure. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Dakin,  sud- 
denly, "  what  surprises  me  is  that  the  people 
who  knew  her  long  ago,  when  she  first  came 
here,  scarcely  remember  her.  They  say,  '  Oh, 
she  was  a  quiet  creature.  Very  shy.  We 


26  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  i. 

scarcely  noticed  her.  She  was  just  Mrs. 
Burbage's  companion.'  Things  like  that,  you 
know.  It  has  often  disappointed  me.  I  should 
have  thought  she  must  have  been  so  beautiful 
as  a  younger  woman." 

"  She  was  always  beautiful,"  said  her  com- 
panion, quietly,  "  to  those  who  had  eyes  to  see. 
But  she  has  learnt  to  use  her  beauty.  She 
had  first  to  learn  that  she  possessed  it.  That 
took  her  a  long  time."  Again  he  smiled  his 
odd  little  smile  of  reminiscence.  "They  are 
quite  right  when  they  say  that  she  was  shy. 
There  are  many  people  in  the  world,  madame, 
who  could  be  beautiful  if  they  knew  how. 
Beauty,  the  truest  beauty,  is  an  art.  A  subtle 
blend  of  many  powers,  mental  and  moral, 
which  result  in  a  mastery  of  the  physical 
qualities.  A  knowledge  of  them,  a  perfect 
handling,  a  moulding  of  them  to  the  ideal  of 
the  spirit.  Do  you  remember  what  your  critic 
Pater,  says  of  Mono,  Lisa  ?  It  is  a  well-known 
passage,  but  it  expresses  what  I  am  trying  to 
say  so  poorly,  so  inadequately." 

Mrs.  Dakin  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  a  very 
ignorant  person,"  she  said,  with  an  embarrassed 
laugh. 

"  He  is  speaking  of  the  portrait — which  is 
lovely,  according  to  the  spirit  rather  than  the 
flesh,  and  he  says,  '  It  is  a  beauty  ivrought  out 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  27 

from  within  upon  the  flesh,  the  deposit,  little 
cell  by  cell,  of  strange  thoughts  and  fantastic 
reveries,  and  exquisite  passions' " 

Mrs.  Dakin  wrinkled  her  forehead.  The 
last  words  shocked  her  a  little.  Her  plea  of 
ignorance  was  a  true  one  in  every  sense  of  the 
word.  It  was  the  plea  of  a  woman  who  had 
passed  most  of  her  life  with  ordinary  conven- 
tional people,  as  oblivious  to  the  complexities 
of  human  life  as  to  the  world  of  ideas  in  art,  in 
philosophy,  in  all  the  realms  invaded  by  human 
thought  and  emotion. 

If  her  existence  was  troubled,  it  was  with 
the  discontent  of  a  child  who  cries  for  the 
moon  which  it  regards  as  a  pretty  material 
plaything,  rather  than  the  trouble  of  a  woman 
to  whom  the  moon  is  a  symbol  of  the  rare,  the 
exquisite  things  of  life,  which  she  weeps  to  find 
beyond  her  reach. 

Yet  her  next  remark  pleased  her  com- 
panion. 

"  I  think  what  you  said  about  the  rose  de- 
scribes her  much  better,"  she  ventured,  rather 
timidly. 

He  smiled.  "You're  quite  right.  I  see 
you  understand  our  sweet  Anne  Page.  She 
doesn't  belong  to  the  Mona  Lisa  type.  She's 
made  up  of  all  the  beautiful  natural  things ;  of 
the  sunlight  and  the  roses,  and  the  dew. 


28  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  i. 

Tiens  !  Don't  say  I'm  ignorant  of  your  poets. 
One  of  them  has  come  rather  near  it  when  he 
says,  '  And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
has  passed  into  her  face!  ' 

Mrs.  Dakin  had  never  heard  the  lines 
before,  and  hurriedly  wondered  how  she  could 
find  them.  She  felt  flattered,  shy,  and  troubled 
at  the  same  moment.  It  was  rather  a  fearful 
joy  to  be  talked  to  by  this  Frenchman,  who  was 
evidently  so  used  to  what  she  called  "  clever " 
people,  that  he  quite  naturally  assumed  her 
comprehension  of  his  language.  She  won- 
dered who  Mona  Lisa  was,  and  half  thought 
of  asking  Harry.  It  occurred  to  her  that 
Harry  read  a  great  deal ;  that  his  study  was 
lined  with  books  into  which  she  had  never 
thought  of  looking.  He  never  talked  to  her 
about  them. 

"  I  suppose  that's  because  he  thinks  me  too 
stupid,"  was  her  impatiently  scornful  reflection. 

She  was  half  relieved,  half  sorry  when  Mrs. 
Carfax,  with  a  conventional  exclamation  upon 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  rose  to  go. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand 
to  her  companion. 

She  hesitated,  and  then,  shyness  making 
the  words  a  little  brusque — 

"  If  you  are  ever  here  again,  I  hope  Miss 
Page  will  bring  you  to  see  us,"  she  added. 


CH.  i.  ANNE    PAGE  29 

"  Enchant^,  madame ! "  he  returned  with 
his  easy  bow  and  smile. 

"Delightful  fellow  that!"  exclaimed  Dr. 
Dakin,  as  he  stepped  into  the  motor-car  after 
his  wife.  He  spoke  with  an  animation  unusual 
to  him.  "  It's  been  a  nice  evening,  hasn't  it, 
Madge?" 

"  Very,"  she  returned  shortly,  pulling  the 
rug  round  her,  and  relapsing  into  silence. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  Frenchman's  smile, 
and  of  his  voice.  He  had  beautiful  hands,  she 
remembered.  Her  husband  looked  at  her  and 
sighed  a  little.  He  would  liked  to  have  dis- 
cussed the  party,  but  Madge  was  in  one  of  her 
moods,  and  he  knew  that  the  attempt  would  be 
useless. 

"There's  an  air  of  unreality  about  foreigners," 
remarked  Mr.  Carfax,  pulling  up  the  window 
with  a  jerk,  as  the  hired  brougham  turned  out 
of  the  drive. 

"  Theatrical,  rather — the  way  that  fellow 
talked,  wasn't  it  ? " 

"  Quite  absurd,"  agreed  his  wife.  "  I  didn't 
listen.  Miss  Page  is  generally  more  interest- 
ing than  she  was  to-night." 

"  Yes.  Women  do  better  as  a  rule,  to 
keep  to  the  subjects  that  suit  them,"  announced 
the  Vicar.  "  Not  that  Miss  Page  isn't  a 


3o  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  i. 

clever  woman,  I  believe.  At  least,  Dakin 
says  so,  and  he  ought  to  know." 

"  I  suppose  this  Monsieur — what's  his 
name — was  one  of  the  friends  she  made  when 
she  was  travelling  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  She  was  away  long  enough 
to  make  shoals  of  them." 

"  You  didn't  know  her,  George,  did  you, 
when  'you  were  a  young  man  ?  " 

The  Vicar  shook  his  head.  "  I  may  have 
seen  her  once  or  twice  when  she  was  old  Mrs. 
Burbage's  companion.  I  had  just  left  college 
then,  and  was  at  my  first  curacy  in  Notting- 
ham— just  before  we  were  married,  you  know. 
I  came  back  to  the  Vicarage  once  or  twice  in 
those  days  to  see  the  old  Dad,  and  I  sup- 
pose she  must  have  been  at  Fairholme  Court 
then.  But  I  don't  remember  her.  She  was 
nurse  and  general  factotum  to  the  old  lady. 
Mrs.  Burbage  was  an  eccentric  woman,  you 
know ;  rather  dotty  towards  the  end,  I  believe. 
I  can  imagine  that  poor  Miss  Page  hadn't  much 
of  a  life  with  her." 

"  And  then  directly  she  had  the  place  left 
to  her,  she  shut  it  up  and  went  away  ?  " 

"  Yes.  That  must  be  nearly  twenty  years 
ago.  How  time  flies ! " 

"  I  remember  we  came  to  the  Vicarage 
just  after  she  had  gone,  when  Sylvia  was  a 


CH.  i.  ANNE   PAGE  31 

baby ;  the  year  after  your  father  died.  It 
was  a  nine-days'  wonder  then.  And  I  re- 
member the  people  at  The  Chase  saying  what 
a  piece  of  luck  it  was  for  such  a  dowdy  quiet 
woman  to  come  into  a  fortune." 

"  They  can't  say  that  now ! "  observed  the 
Vicar. 

"  No.  I  never  was  so  surprised  in  my  life 
as  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  That  must  be  ten 
years  ago  now,  George  ?  " 

"Yes.  She  was  away  ten  years,  and 
she's  been  back  at  the  Court  nearly  the  same 
time.  That  makes  it  about  twenty  years, 
as  I  thought.  Dear  me,  it  seems  impos- 
sible ! " 

"She  doesn't  alter  at  all,  does  she?  Her 
hair  may  have  got  a  little  whiter  since  I  first 
saw  her,  but  I  believe  she's  prettier  even. 
Well !  Foreign  travel  must  be  wonderful  if 
it  can  change  a  plain,  dowdy  creature  into  a 
woman  like  Miss  Page." 

"  Money ! "  exclaimed  the  Vicar,  senten- 
tiously.  "  Money.  It  may  be  the  root  of 
all  evil,  but  it's  a  great  power — a  great  power, 
Mary." 

"  Mrs.  Dakin's  always  very  much  over- 
dressed, isn't  she  ? "  remarked  his  wife,  as 
they  approached  the  Vicarage  porch. 

"Yes.     Foolish  little  woman  that — foolish 


32  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  i. 

little  woman.  Take  care  how  you  get  out, 
Mary ;  the  step  is  awkward." 

The  sound  of  a  high  sweet  voice  floated 
out  upon  the  darkness,  and  Mrs.  Carfax  looked 
up  sharply  at  a  lighted  window  on  the  first 
floor. 

"  There's  Sylvia  singing  ! "  she  exclaimed 
in  an  exasperated  tone.  "  She'll  wake  all  the 
children.  Run  up  and  tell  her  to  stop  at  once, 
George!  Really,  she  is  the  most  annoying 
girl  I  ever  met" 


II 

LEFT  alone  for  a  few  moments  while  his  hostess 
was  making  her  farewells  in  the  hall,  Monsieur 
Fontenelle  sat  still  admiring  the  beautiful  room, 
quiet  now,  its  long  windows  open  to  the  night 
and  to  the  sound  of  the  whispering  trees. 

Lighted  by  pink-shaded  candles,  its  white 
panelled  walls,  its  rose-patterned  chintz  curtains 
and  chair-covers  gave  it  an  air  of  exquisite 
freshness  and  purity.  Everywhere  there  were 
flowers.  Roses  glowed  between  the  candles  on 
the  mantelpiece.  China  bowls  rilled  with  sweet 
peas,  with  pink  mallows,  with  snapdragon, 
stood  on  tables,  or  on  the  top  of  Sheraton 
bureaus.  Even  the  deep  fireplace  was  filled 
with  flowering  plants. 

Appreciatively,  Monsieur  Fontenelle  glanced 
at  the  delicate  workmanship  of  a  Chippendale 
chair,  noticed  the  graceful  shape  of  a  writing- 
table,  and  the  beauty  of  an  inlaid  bookcase 
with  a  lattice-work  of  wood  over  its  diamond 
panes.  There  were  only  one  or  two  pictures 
on  the  walls,  whose  creamy  surface  made  a 

33  D 


34  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  n. 

restful  background  to  the  colour  in  the  room. 
Monsieur  Fontenelle  examined  them.  His 
quick  eye  detected  a  Corot,  a  tiny  sketch  of 
Whistler's,  and  then  on  the  wall  opposite  to 
him,  a  landscape  at  the  sight  of  which  a 
peculiar  brightness  sprang  to  his  eyes. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  stood  looking 
at  it.  He  was  still  looking  at  it  when  the 
rustle  of  a  gown  made  him  aware  that  Miss 
Page  had  come  back. 

Then  he  turned.  She  was  standing  just 
within  the  door,  watching  him,  and  in  her  eyes 
also  there  was  the  same  curious  brightness. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  whimsically, 
without  moving. 

"  You  are  a  wonderful  woman ! "  he  ex- 
claimed at  last,  speaking  in  French. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  returned  in  the  same  language. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  leave  that  to  the  bon  Dieu  who  made 
you.  He's  responsible,  I  suppose,  for  women 
of  your  type." 

She  smiled  without  replying. 

"  You  tell  me  you're  happy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Quite  happy,  Frangois." 

Again  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Come, 
let  us  talk,"  he  said,  taking  her  by  both  hands 
and  leading  her  to  the  sofa.  "  I  only  saw  you 
for  ten  minutes  this  morning." 


CH.  ii.  ANNE   PAGE  35 

"  Let  us  talk,"  she  replied.  And  in  French, 
"  Ca  me f era  du  bien" 

Instead  of  speaking  at  first,  he  looked  at 
her. 

"  Anne,"  he  exclaimed  after  a  moment, 
"you  are  amazing!  How  do  you  manage  it  ? 
You  look  younger  than  the  day  I  first  saw  you." 

"  But  I  was  old  then,"  she  returned,  shaking 
her  head — "  very  old.  A  woman  who  had  done 
with  life." 

He  answered  her  seriousness  with  a  slow 
smile. 

"  Life  had  not  done  with  you,  had  it  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply,  and  with  a  change  of 
voice,  he  said — 

"  So  these  are  your  neighbours." 

"  Some  of  them.  They  are  dear  people. 
I  can't  tell  you  half  their  kindness  to  me." 

"  It's  not  difficult  to  be  kind  to  sweet  Anne 
Page." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  glance.  "  It's  nice  to 
hear  the  old  name  again." 

"No  name  ever  suited  a  woman  better. 
So  you  can  live  with  the  inhabitants  of  Dym- 
field  without  boring  yourself  to  extinction  ? 
But  of  course  you  can.  I  never  saw  you 
bored." 

"  Boredom  is  a  modern  disease,  isn't  it  ? 
And  you  know  I  am  not  a  modern  woman." 


36  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  n. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  exclaimed  wkh  fervour. 
"  The  little  woman  whose  pretty  head  I've 
been  puzzling  all  the  evening,  suffers  from  it 
terribly,  though." 

"  Boredom  ?  You're  very  quick,  Francois. 
You  always  were.  Poor  little  thing ! "  she 
added  with  a  sigh. 

"  Why  ?    Doesn't  her  husband  amuse  her  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "No.  It's  one  of 
those  unnecessary  tragedies  of  life.  They 
don't  try  to  understand  one  another.  The 
material  for  happiness  is  all  there,  and  they 
miss  it.  He's  a  dear  fellow.  Kind,  and  good  ; 
and  a  scholar  too,  as  of  course  you  discovered." 

"  Yes.  You  have  one  person  at  least  with 
whom  you  need  not  talk  in  words  of  one 
syllable. 

"Words  of  one  syllable  are  often  the 
sweetest." 

He  laughed.  "  You  remind  me  of  the  lady 
from  whose  lips  whenever  she  opened  them, 
a  flower  fell.  Your  floors  ought  to  be  strewn 
with  roses  and  violets  by  this  time.  But  come  ! 
I  don't  want  to  discuss  your  neighbours.  I 
want  to  talk  about  you.  Do  you  know  that 
in  ten  years  I  have  only  seen  you  three  times  ? 
And  you  must  have  been  through  Paris  very 
often.  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?  " 

"Twice  when  I  went  to  your  studio  you 


CH.  ii.  ANNE   PAGE  37 

were  away.  The  last  time,  the  concierge  told 
me  you  were  with  a  lady." 

"Well?" 

"  Well  I  didn't  come  up,  of  course." 

He  laughed.  "  Anne !  You  are  the  same 
Anne.  So  demure — so  discreet." 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  married  by 
this  time,  Fran9ois,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  No  dear  Anne,  you 
didn't.  You  know  I  am  not  the  man  to 
marry." 

She  returned  his  glance.  "  You  are  right," 
she  answered  quietly.  "You  have  become 
such  a  celebrity  Fran9ois,  that  I  ought  to  be 
afraid  of  you,"  she  added. 

His  face  changed.  "  I  have  become  a 
popular  painter,  you  mean." 

"  You  are  not  satisfied  ? "  She  put  the 
question  softly. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  One  becomes 
what  one  is  fit  to  become.  I'm  a  lazy  devil, 
Anne.  It  wasn't  in  me  to  bear  the  heat  and 
burden  of  the  day  without  my  hire.  I  have 
learnt  to  give  the  public  what  it  wants,  and  to 
laugh  in  my  sleeve  at  its  stupid  shouting. 
The  result  is  that  in  every  paper  the  world 
is  assured  that  I  have  achieved  an  international 
reputation.  And  next  week  I  shall  stand  at 
the  head  of  a  staircase,  solemnly  shaking  by 


38  ANNE   PAGE  en.  n. 

the  hand,  innumerable  stupid  people  who 
know  nothing,  and  care  less  about  art,  but 
have  come  because  it  is  one  of  the  functions 
of  the  season,  to  stare  at  the  President  of  the 
International  Art  Congress.  Quelle  farce  /" 

He  laughed  a  little.  "  It  seems  far  enough 
away  from  that  summer  twenty  years  ago,  when 
we  all  sat  in  that  garden,"  he  nodded  towards 
the  open  window,  "  and  talked  of  our  dreams 
and  our  ambitions.  Ah !  we  were  going  to 
revolutionize  art,  weren't  we  ?  We  were  going 
to  bring  the  world  to  our  feet  like  the  young 
painters  in  L'Oeuvre,  do  you  remember  ?  The 
young  painters  who  used  to  walk  about  Paris, 
talking,  for  ever  talking,  mad  with  hope  and 
enthusiasm.  And  now  ?  Henri  is  writing 

o 

for  La  Presse  .  .  .  Sacri  tonnerre  de  Dieu,  as 
Lantier  and  Sandoz  used  to  remark  so  fre- 
quently. What  stuff!  And  how  it  pays ! 
(Henri  has  a  flat,  Rue  Malesherbes — Empire 
right  through.)  Paul  has  abandoned  music,  and 
is  making  vast  sums  on  the  Bourse,  and  I  am 
President  of  the  International  Art  Congress." 

He  paused. 

"And  Rene  is  dead,"  said  Anne. 

There  was  a  silence.  The  lamp-lit  room 
with  its  colour  and  fragrance  was  very  still. 
To  both  of  them,  their  minds  filled  with  the 
scenes  of  other  days,  it  assumed  for  a  moment 


CH.  ii.  ANNE   PAGE  39 

an  air  of  brilliant  unreality,  like  a  room  seen  in 
a  dream.  Outside,  the  trees  whispered  very 
softly* 

"  Whom  the  gods  love "  began  Frangois. 

He  rose  abruptly,  and  moved  to  the  pic- 
ture he  had  been  examining  when  Anne 
entered. 

"That's  the  real  stuff!"  he  exclaimed. 
"God!  how  good  it  is!  How  did  you  get 
this  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  bought  it." 

He  wheeled  abruptly  round.  *'  Have  you 
much  of  his  work  ?  " 

"  I  bought  all  I  could  get.  The  Bathers 
and  The  Forest  are  in  my  room  upstairs." 

"  Then  France  is  the  poorer  by  three 
masterpieces." 

"  France  will  get  them  back  at  my  death." 

"  You  have  arranged  that  ? " 

She  nodded.  "  They  belong  to  his  country, 
of  course." 

He  came  and  sat  beside  her  again.  "  I 
told  you  that  the  Luxembourg  had  bought  my 
portrait  of  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Dear  Frangois  the  news  gave  me 
more  pleasure  than  anything  I  have  heard 
about  you  for  a  long  time." 

"  It  was  to  be  my  masterpiece,  if  you 
remember.  They're  quite  right.  I've  never 


40  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  ir. 

done  anything  to  touch  it  since.  It  belongs  to 
my  youth." 

He  saw  that  she  was  pale,  and  that  her 
eyes  looked  sad. 

"  I've  distressed  you.  I'm  a  brute ! "  he 
declared  impulsively.  "  And  we're  not  all 
hommes  rates,  thank  Heaven  !  Some  of  the 
men  of  the  old  Rue  de  Fleurus  days  are  not 
to  be  despised." 

"Thouret,  Bussieres,  Giroux,"  murmured 
Anne. 

"  Yes ;  they  have  big  names  now.  But 
after  all  Anne,  it's  you  who  have  made  an 
art  of  life.  You're  the  only  real  success.  You 
and  Rend — who  was  wise  enough  to  die,"  he 
added. 

"Talk  to  me  about  Paris,"  Anne  urged. 
"  What  is  your  new  studio  like  ?  Very 
gorgeous,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  It's  the  studio  of  a  popular  portrait- 
painter.  Now  you  know  all  about  it." 

"  And  the  Duclos  ?  And  Georges 
Pasteurs  ? " 

He  began  to  talk  gaily,  while  she  ques- 
tioned him,  and  they  both  laughed  at  reminis- 
cences. There  was  no  end  to  her  eager 
inquiries. 

"How  you  remember  the  people!"  ex- 
claimed Fra^ois,  presently. 


CH.  ii.  ANNE    PAGE  41 

"  How  can  I  forget  ?  "  she  asked. 

It  was  late  when  he  rose  to  go. 

"  To-morrow,  early  I  start  for  London,  to 
prepare  for  the  fuss  of  next  week.  I'm  glad 
you  won't  be  there,  Anne." 

His  whimsical  mocking  smile  met  her  as 
she  raised  her  eyes. 

"  I  should  prefer  you  not  to  see  your  old 
friend  playing  the  solemn  fool." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Well !  One 
can't  have  everything,  and  I  have  five  thousand 
a  year.  It's  enough  to  make  one  comfortable." 

"  But  not  happy,"  she  said  gently. 

"  That,  till  forty,  depends  on  one's  tempera- 
ment. Afterwards  on  one's  dinner.  I'm  very 
happy  to-night.  Your  cook  was  chosen  with 
your  usual  discretion. 

She  laughed. 

"You  will  be  coming  through  Paris  this 
winter  ?  " 

"  Not  to  stay.  Paris  hurts  me  a  little,  old 
woman  as  I  am.  On  my  way  back,  in  the 
spring  perhaps." 

He  kissed  her  hand.  "  Most  certainly  in 
the  spring.  It's  au  revoir? 


Ill 

AN  hour  after  her  friend  had  gone,  Miss  Page 
sat  by  the  open  window  in  her  bedroom.  The 
room  was  full  of  moonlight,  for  she  had  put  out 
the  candles  and  drawn  back  the  curtains. 

Somewhere  in  the  garden,  or  near  it,  a 
nightingale  was  singing. 

Deep  shadows  lay  across  the  lawn,  and 
all  the  trees  were  dreaming.  Far  out,  the 
meadows  covered  with  a  light  mist,  were  like 
a  mystic  silver-flooded  sea. 

For  a  long  time  Anne  did  not  move.  Her 
long  talk  had  revived  memories.  They 
crowded  so  swiftly  to  her  mind  that  she  grew 
bewildered,  and  as  though  impelled  by  a 
sudden  impulse  to  seek  relief,  she  rose  and 
crossed  the  room  to  a  tall  bureau  opposite  the 
window. 

Its  interior  revealed  a  number  of  pigeon- 
holes, and  tiny  cupboards  with  brass  knobs. 
Pressing  a  spring  under  one  of  these,  a  deep 
drawer  sprang  open. 

She  felt  in  its  recesses  for  a  moment,  and 

42 


CH.  in.  ANNE    PAGE  43 

presently  drew  out  a  book  bound  in  a  linen 
cover.  Then  lighting  a  candle  and  placing 
it  on  the  table  near  the  window,  she  resumed 
her  seat. 

In  the  quiet  air  the  candle  flame  burnt  clear 
and  steady,  and  opening  the  book,  Anne  began 
to  read  a  journal  begun  in  her  childhood.  The 
volume  was  an  ordinary  thick  exercise  book 
such  as  schoolgirls  use,  and  on  the  first  page, 
in  a  large  childish  hand,  was  written — 

"Anne  Page, 
"  Tuft  on  Street, 

"  Dalsfon, 

"London,  1 8 — . 

"  This  is  my  birthday,"  it  began.  "  I  am 
twelve  to-day,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  keep  a  diary  like  Charlotte  and  Emily  and 
Anne  Bronte.  At  least  I  think  they  didn't 
exactly  keep  a  diary.  They  wrote  down  what 
they  were  all  doing  at  a  certain  time,  and  then 
four  years  afterwards,  they  opened  their  papers 
and  compared  notes.  I  think  that  was  a  good 
plan.  But  I  shall  write  in  my  book  once  a 
year,  on  my  birthday.  So  few  things  happen 
to  me  that  I  dare  say  that  will  be  quite  enough. 

"  As  I  have  never  written  a  journal  before, 
I  will  say  all  I  can  remember  about  myself 
before  this  birthday.  Perhaps  if  I  don't,  I 
shall  have  forgotten  it  by  the  time  I'm  old. 


44  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  in. 

"  I  live  at  Dalston,  and  father  is  one  of  the 
curates  at  St.  Jude's.  Mother  died  when  I 
was  two  years  old,  so  I  don't  remember  her. 
She  left  me  her  watch  and  chain  and  two 
bracelets.  I  have  one  brother  Hugh,  but  last 
year  he  ran  away  from  home,  and  went  to  sea. 
He  ran  away  because  he  wasn't  happy.  Father 
was  very  strict  with  him.  It  is  a  good  thing  to 
be  a  boy,  and  be  able  to  run  away.  I  can't, 
because  girls  can't  be  sailors,  and  there's 
nowhere  to  run  to.  I  miss  Hugh  dreadfully. 
He  was  fourteen,  and  he  was  very  nice  to  me. 
I  still  cry  about  him  sometimes  at  night.  But 
it's  no  good. 

"  Our  house  is  very  ugly.  It's  in  a  street. 
It  has  a  little  back  garden,  but  nothing  will 
grow  there  because  it's  full  of  cats. 

"  I  have  a  governess.  Her  name  is  Miss 
Atkins.  She  comes  every  day  at  half-past 
nine,  and  gives  me  lessons  till  twelve.  Then 
we  go  for  a  walk.  But  there  are  no  nice  walks 
here.  In  the  afternoon  I  do  needlework,  and 
learn  my  lessons  for  the  next  day,  and  Miss 
Atkins  goes  at  six  o'clock.  She  has  corkscrew 
curls,  and  her  hair  is  sandy  like  Thomas,  our 
cat.  She  is  cross  every  arithmetic  day,  because 
I  can't  do  arithmetic.  But  she  says  it's  because 
I  won't,  but  that  is  not  true.  I  like  history  and 
poetry,  and  all  about  the  poets  and  writers. 


CH.  m.  ANNE   PAGE  45 

And  especially  Shakespeare.  Sometimes  I 
read  out  of  Lamb's  tales  for  my  reading  lesson. 
I  should  like  to  read  out  of  Shakespeare,  but 
Miss  Atkins  won't  let  me.  She  says  it  isn't 
fit.  I  don't  know  why  she  says  this,  because  I 
have  found  a  Shakespeare  in  father's  study, 
and  some  of  it  is  beautiful.  I  like  the 
Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  and  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  The  Shakespeare  is  the  only  nice 
book  in  the  house.  Most  of  them  are 
sermons,  and  about  religion. 

"  I'm  going  to  put  a  wicked  thing  in  this 
book,  so  I  must  be  careful  always  to  lock  it  up. 
I  dorit  like  religion. 

"Miss  Atkins  says  she  loves  God,  and  I 
asked  her  whether  father  did.  She  was 
shocked,  and  said  of  course  he  did,  because 
he  was  a  curate.  I  wish  he  loved  me,  but  I 
don't  think  he  does.  He  is  nearly  always 
cross,  and  I'm  always  being  punished." 

Miss  Page  let  the  book  fall  on  to  her  lap. 
Mechanically  she  turned  her  face  towards  the 
meadows  with  their  islands  of  motionless  trees 
emerging  from  the  mists.  But  she  did  not  see 
them.  The  childish  words,  already  consider- 
ably more  than  forty  years  old,  already  a  little 
yellow  and  faded,  had  brought  into  sight 
instead,  the  dreary  house  in  Tufton  Street. 


46  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  in. 

With  the  clearness  and  precision  of  actual 
vision,  she  saw  the  narrow  staircase  covered 
with  oilcloth,  which  led  up  to  the  bedroom  in 
which  she  had  spent  so  many  hours  of  solitary 
confinement. 

She  saw  the  pattern  on  the  shabby  wall- 
paper. She  saw  her  little  iron  bedstead, 
covered  with  a  counterpane  of  thick  white 
material,  with  a  raised  pattern  upon  its  surface  ; 
the  curtains  of  dingy  drab  rep  on  either  side 
of  a  red  blind;  the  outlook  across  a  leaden 
street,  swept  by  wind  and  rain. 

She  thought  of  her  father,  a  morose,  irritable 
man  whose  persistent  bad  temper,  condoned 
to  himself  under  the  guise  of  necessary  chastise- 
ment, had  driven  her  brother  from  the  house. 

She  remembered  him  in  the  clothes  of  his 
office,  shabby  and  ill-cut,  going  doggedly 
about  the  duties  which  in  later  years  she  knew 
had  been  uncongenial. 

Half  reluctantly  Anne  took  up  the  book 
again. 

"  I  said  that  nothing  ever  happened  to  me. 
But  one  lovely  thing  happened  last  year.  I 
went  to  stay  at  Dymfield,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Burbage.  Mr.  Burbage  was  some  relation  to 
my  mother — a  cousin,  I  think.  Anyhow  they 
wrote  to  father,  and  asked  him  to  let  me  come. 


CH.  m.  ANNE   PAGE  47 

Their  house  is  called  Fairholme  Court,  and  it 
is  a  lovely  house,  only  the  furniture  is  ugly 
(except  upstairs  in  some  of  the  bedrooms, 
where  Mrs.  Burbage  can't  see  it).  Mrs.  Bur- 
bage  is  very  funny.  She  was  kind  to  me,  and 
I  liked  her  rather,  but  not  nearly  so  much  as 
Mr.  Burbage.  I  liked  him  better  than  any  one 
I  ever  saw,  though  he  doesn't  talk  much,  but 
reads  all  day  long.  Perhaps  that's  what  makes 
his  eyes  look  so  tired  and  sad.  He  has  a 
lovely  study  full  of  books,  and  he  let  me  read 
anything  I  liked.  It  was  there  that  I  read 
about  Charlotte  and  Emily  and  Anne  Bronte. 
They  are  very  interesting,  but  I  wish  Emily 
had  been  called  Anne,  like  me,  instead  of  the 
youngest  one.  I  like  Emily  best.  And  I  read 
Hans  Andersen  too,  and  when  I  came  away 
Mr.  Burbage  gave  it  to  me.  It  is  the  loveliest 
book  in  the  world.  My  favourite  story  is 
'  The  Little  Sea  Maid.'  Some  day  when 
I  am  grown  up,  I  will  go  to  places  where  there 
are  orange  trees,  and  marble  palaces,  and  the 
sea  is  quite  blue. 

"  My  bedroom  was  so  pretty.  It  was  like 
a  room  in  a  fairy-tale.  There  was  furniture 
with  spindly  legs  in  it ;  the  kind  of  furniture 
Mrs.  Burbage  said  "was  ugly  and  old-fashioned. 
But  I  thought  it  was  very  pretty.  There  were 
white  curtains  to  the  bed,  and  the  wall-paper 


48  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  in. 

had  pink  rosebuds  on  it,  and  the  window  was 
like  a  little  door  with  lots  of  tiny  panes,  and 
it  pushed  outwards.  There  was  clematis  all 
round  the  window,  and  white  roses  which  tried 
to  grow  into  the  room.  In  the  morning  I  used 
to  hear  the  birds  chirping  in  their  nests,  and 
then  I  used  to  jump  out  of  bed,  and  see  the 
sun  rising  over  the  fields.  And  the  garden 
was  all  shining  with  dew,  and  everything  look 
enchanted. 

"  I  was  there  a  month,  while  Miss  Atkins 
was  away  for  her  holiday,  and  I  was  too  happy. 
But  now  I  shall  never  go  there  again,  because 
father  has  had  a  quarrel  with  Mr.  Burbage. 
It  was  something  about  me,  I  think." 

Her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  round  hand- 
writing, Anne's  memory  was  working. 

Years  later  she  knew  that  her  old  friend  had 
once  loved  her  mother,  his  cousin  and  play- 
fellow. At  her  father's  death  she  had  found, 
on  going  through  his  papers,  the  letter  in  which 
he  had  offered  to  provide  for  the  child  of  the 
woman  who  would  not  be  his  wife.  It  was 
a  letter  full  of  tact  and  delicate  feeling,  but 
it  indicated  how  much  of  the  little  girl's  loneli- 
ness he  knew  and  understood. 

He  pointed  out  that  companions  of  her  own 
age  were  necessary  for  the  happy  development 


CH.  in.  ANNE   PAGE  49 

of  her  temperament.  He  wanted  to  educate 
her  with  some  neighbour's  children,  so  that 
she  might  live  at  Fairholme  Court,  in  the 
country  which  she  loved.  She  was  not  strong, 
he  declared,  and  London  air  obviously  did  not 
suit  her.  There  would  of  course  be  no 
attempt  to  separate  her  from  her  father.  She 
could  return  to  him  during  the  holidays,  when- 
ever he  wished  to  see  her. 

It  was  a  letter  written  from  full  knowledge 
of  the  circumstances. 

He  knew  the  atmosphere  of  struggling 
poverty  in  which  Anne,  as  the  daughter  of 
a  curate  with  an  income  of  little  more  than 
a  hundred  a  year,  passed  her  existence.  He 
knew  also  that  the  man  had  little  tender- 
ness for  his  daughter,  and  he  hoped  that  his 
suggestion  might  come  as  a  relief. 

Even  at  the  age  of  twelve,  Anne  could 
have  undeceived  him. 

Already,  unable  as  yet  to  put  her  know- 
ledge into  definite  form,  she  knew  her  father 
well. 

Gloomy  and  morose,  a  man  of  narrow 
intelligence  and  invincible  obstinacy,  he  re- 
sented any  overtures  which  to  his  mind 
savoured  of  patronage. 

In  later  years  Anne  knew  the  bitterness 
of  his  life. 

£ 


50  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  HI. 

The  son  of  a  rich  stockbroker,  he  had  just 
finished  his  course  at  Cambridge  when  the 
financial  ruin,  which  killed  his  father,  struck 
the  death-blow  to  his  own  ambitions  also. 

He  had  been  reading  for  the  Church,  with 
dreams,  easy  as  it  then  seemed  to  be  realized, 
of  a  splendid  living,  and  a  possible  bishopric. 

The  girl  to  whom  he  was  engaged,  the 
daughter  of  an  impoverished  Irish  landlord, 
was  penniless. 

She  refused  to  give  him  up,  and  he  married 
her,  after  taking  orders,  and  entering  the  Church 
as  a  miserably  paid  curate.  Together  they 
settled  in  the  dingy  little  house  near  the  Church 
of  St.  Jude,  at  Dalston,  to  prove  that  love  in 
poverty  was  a  different  matter  from  the  same 
emotion  experienced  in  affluence. 

Henry  Page  was  not  strong  enough  to 
bear  misfortune  well. 

His  temper,  naturally  irrational  and  im- 
patient of  hardship — a  temper  which  it  would 
have  required  much  material  prosperity  to 
soften,  became  soured  and  exacting  under  the 
stress  of  daily  anxious  necessity.  Five  years 
after  their  marriage,  his  young  wife,  crushed 
and  saddened,  gave  up  the  struggle  and  died, 
leaving  her  two  children  in  no  very  gentle 
hands. 

The   boy,  determined   to  call   his   life  his 


en.  in.  ANNE   PAGE  51 

own,  had  cut  the  knot  of  uncongenial  family 
existence  by  flight. 
Anne  was  left. 

Miss  Page  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the 
exercise  book  slowly. 

On  the  whole,  the  child  she  remembered 
had  kept  her  resolution  fairly  well. 

"  To-day  is  my  birthday.  I  am  thirteen. 
I  am  fifteen.  I  am  seventeen.'1  The  words 
marking  another  year  met  her  eyes  constantly 
as  she  fluttered  the  pages.  Several  times 
there  was  a  mention  of  Hugh.  She  had  heard 
from  him.  He  was  getting  on.  He  hoped 
some  day  to  be  captain  of  a  trading  vessel. 
He  had  sent  her  some  funny  writing-paper 
from  Japan.  Another  time  it  was  a  pressed 
flower,  or  some  curious  seeds  from  the  South 
Sea  Islands. 

Once — this  was  recorded  after  her  seven- 
teenth birthday — he  had  come  home  for  a  week. 

"  He  is  nineteen,  and  so  brown  and  hand- 
some and  strong,"  was  the  remark  in  the 
journal.  "  He  did  not  get  on  well  with  father. 
He  told  him  that  I  ought  to  go  away — that 
I  had  no  friends,  and  that  my  life  was  very 
dull.  Father  was  terribly  angry.  Now  Hugh 
has  gone,  and  I'm  wretched — wretched.  The 
house  is  so  quiet.  I  can  hear  the  clock  in 


52  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  in. 

the  hall  ticking  even  when  I'm  upstairs  in  my 
bedroom.  It  is  raining,  and  the  sky  is  like 
lead." 

Anne  still  turned  the  leaves.  There  were 
big  gaps  in  the  journal,  but  if  they  had  been 
filled,  the  word  across  the  page  would  have  been 
the  classic  nothing  of  the  diary  of  Louis  XVI. 

In  thought  Anne  went  back  over  the  long, 
dreary  years — the  incredibly  empty  years  of 
a  woman  whom  lack  of  means  as  well  as  lack 
of  opportunity  cuts  off  from  the  world. 

A  woman  moreover,  whose  youth  was 
spent  under  conditions  less  elastic,  less  favour- 
able to  development  than  those  of  modern  days. 

The  cold  bare  nave  of  St.  Jude's  rose 
vividly  in  her  mind.  She  saw  the  pews  full 
of  women  in  frowsy  faded  bonnets — the  bonnets 
of  Dalston. 

She  saw  the  parish  room  lighted  by  un- 
shaded gas-burners,  in  which,  shy  as  she  was, 
she  had  held  classes  for  work-mrls.  Aq^ain 

<j  o 

she  watched  them  bending  over  their  desks, 
giggling  and  nudging  one  another  when  she 
entered  the  room. 

She  remembered  the  look  of  the  street 
when  after  the  appointed  hour  for  her  class, 
she  emerged  from  the  stuffy  room  into  the 
night  air. 


CH.  in.  ANNE   PAGE  53 

There  was  a  butcher's  shop  opposite,  with 
a  row  of  flaring  lights,  and  the  butcher  in  a 
greasy  apron  used  to  stand  upon  the  pave- 
ment shouting  his  wares  to  the  hurrying 
passers-by. 

Then  there  was  the  return  to  the  dingy 
house.  A  hurried  lighting  of  the  gas  in  the 
entrance  passage,  the  glare  of  which  revealed 
the  oil-cloth  on  the  floor,  growing  more  worn 
and  shabby  every  year.  How  well  Anne 
remembered  what  was  left  of  the  pattern  of 
that  oil-cloth  ! 

A  descent  into  the  kitchen  followed,  where 
she  prepared  the  supper,  and  directed  the 
clumsy  movements  of  Harriet,  the  little  maid- 
of-all-work. 

Supper  then  with  her  father,  who  some- 
times scarcely  raised  his  head  from  his  plate, 
and  seldom  spoke  a  word. 

Anne  remembered  one  or  two  of  the  curates 
who  had  tried  to  make  friends  with  her. 

One  of  them  who  sometimes  insisted  upon 
walking  back  with  her  from  her  evening  class, 
had  hovered  upon  the  verge  of  a  mild  flirtation. 
But  to  Anne,  desperately  shy  and  unused  to 
the  society  of  her  fellow-creatures,  his  words 
were  meaningless  and  embarrassing.  More- 
over, her  father  was  unpopular.  Frequently 
embroiled  with  his  colleagues,  none  of  them 


54  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  in. 

sought  his  society,  and  none  ventured  to  a 
house  to  which  they  were  never  invited. 

In  retrospect,  she  scarcely  needed  aid  from 
the  journal,  Anne  saw  the  years  pass  in  grey 
procession.  There  was  no  note  of  revolt  in  the 
record  of  her  girlhood's  days,  and  the  reading 
was  the  sadder  for  its  absence.  No  revolt,  no 
bitterness.  Only  a  sad  acquiescence  with  fate, 
a  gradual  numbing  of  sensation,  a  sort  of 
mental  and  moral  apathy,  grey,  leaden,  hope- 
less. 

She  paused  at  the  words  which  followed  the 
announcement  of  her  twenty-seventh  birthday. 

"  Last  week  father  was  taken  suddenly 
very  ill.  The  doctor  is  afraid  it  is  paralysis." 

For  three  years  there  was  no  further  word 
in  the  book,  but  Anne  knew  those  three  years 
by  heart. 

They  were  passed  chiefly  between  the  sick- 
room and  the  kitchen,  in  which  she  prepared 
invalid  food,  and  directed  the  little  maid  in  the 
management  of  the  housework.  Helpless  as  a 
child,  her  father  required  constant  unremitting 
attendance,  and  when  on  the  eve  of  her 
thirtieth  birthday  he  died,  Anne  found  her- 
self literally  penniless.  The  long  illness  had 
swallowed  up  his  scanty  earnings,  and,  unpre- 
pared for  any  work  in  the  world,  his  daughter 
was  left  to  face  starvation. 


CH.  m.  ANNE   PAGE  55 

Fastened  inside  the  book  was  the  letter 
which  saved  her. 

It  was  written  in  the  thin,  quavering  hand- 
writing of  an  old  woman  even  then  ill  and 
feeble.  She  opened  and  read  it. 

"  Fairholme  Court, 

"  February,  18 — 

"My  dear  Anne, 

"  The  news  of  your  loss  has  just  reached 
me.  Before  he  died,  my  husband  made  me 
promise  that  if  you  were  ever  free,  I  would 
ask  you  to  come  to  me.  Will  you  come  now  ? 
I  am  an  old  woman,  and  an  invalid.  In  any 
case,  before  long  I  must  have  had  a  companion 
who  would  look  after  me,  and  nurse  me  when 
necessary.  I  cannot  offer  you  a  very  cheerful 
home,  but  if  you  come  you  will  be  welcome. 

"  With  sincere  sympathy  for  the  grief  you 
have  sustained, 

f<  Believe  me, 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"JANE  BURBAGE" 

On  the  next  page,  the  last  written  page 
in  the  book,  Anne  read  these  words  : — 

"  To-morrow  I  go  to  Fairholme  Court.  It 
is  eighteen  years  since  I  saw  it.  I  am  now 
thirty  years  old,  and  what  I  said  as  a  child 


56  ANNE   PAGE  en.  m. 

is  still  true.  Nothing  has  ever  happened  to 
me.  Nothing  will  ever  happen  now.  It  is 
not  surprising.  I  am  very  plain,  and  nothing 
happens  to  a  plain  woman  who  is  also  poor. 
I  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  Mrs.  Burbage. 
She  has  probably  saved  me  from  starving.  I 
am  very  grateful.  But  to-night  I  can't  feel 
anything  except  that  I  don't  care  to  go  on 
living.  If  I  were  a  religious  woman  I  should 
think  this  sinful,  but  what  I  said  as  a  child 
is  still  true.  I  don't  like  religion.  I  mean 
that  it  has  never  affected  me.  Never  made 
me  happy.  Perhaps  I  have  never  yet  found 
the  religion  to  suit  me.  I  don't  know.  To- 
morrow I  begin  a  new  life,  but  it  will  be  again 
a  life  of  nursing. 

"  I  try  to  be  grateful  for  a  home.  I  try  to 
feel  cheerful.  But  all  feeling  seems  to  have 
gone.  I  remember  my  thoughts  as  a  child. 
I  was  often  very  eager  then,  and  hopeful.  I 
was  often  sure  in  my  heart  that  something 
delightful  would  happen  to  me.  But  now 
nothing  seems  worth  while,  and  I  am  only 
very  tired.  Perhaps  when  I  feel  better  I  shall 
be  glad  that  Fairholme  Court  is  beautiful  and 
in  the  country.  To-night  even  that  doesn't 
matter. 

"  Hugh  wrote  to  me  after  father's  death. 
He  has  saved  a  little  money,  and  with 


en.  in.  ANNE   PAGE  57 

another  man,  a  friend,  he  is  going  to  start  a 
sheep  farm  in  New  Zealand.  He  is  engaged 
to  be  married  to  a  girl  he  met  on  one  of  his 
voyages.  She  has  since  returned  to  England, 
and  they  will  have  to  wait  till  he  has  made 
a  home  for  her  before  they  can  marry.  But  he 
seems  full  of  hope,  and  is  very  happy. 

"  I  am  chiefly  thankful  for  Mrs.  Burbage's 
invitation,  because  now  I  need  not  be  a  burden 
to  him.  As  it  is,  he  has  sent  me  money  which 
he  can  ill  afford,  though  without  it  I  could  not 
have  existed  during  the  past  few  months.  He 
wanted  my  photograph,  and,  to  please  him, 
I  had  it  taken.  The  other  copies  will  be 
wasted.  There's  no  one  else  in  the  world  who 
wants  my  picture.  All  my  things  are  packed. 
This  is  the  end  of  my  life  here.  I  wish  it  were 
the  end  altogether." 

A  photograph,  one  of  the  wasted  copies, 
was  placed  between  the  leaves,  at  the  last 
written  page. 

Anne  took  it  up,  and  examined  it  by  the 
light  of  the  expiring  candle. 

She  saw  a  sad  quiet  face,  with  thick  hair 
parted  smoothly  on  either  side  of  the  forehead. 
It  was  a  face  which  looked  older  than  the  one 
now  bent  over  it.  A  disfiguring  gown,  fastened 
with  a  little  tucker  at  the  neck,  concealed  the 


58  ANNE    PAGE  en.  in. 

long  line  of  the  throat.  Except  for  the  indica- 
tion of  a  clear  cut  chin,  and  a  mouth  sweet, 
despite  its  sadness,  there  was  no  beauty,  not 
even  a  suggestion  of  grace  or  charm  in  the 
picture. 

Anne  replaced  the  photograph,  and  slowly 
shut  the  book. 

There  was  a  look  of  terror  on  her  face. 
She  had  called  up  a  ghost — the  ghost  of  her 
past  self. 

Like  a  woman  whose  one  idea  is  flight, 
she  half  rose,  and  for  a  moment  glanced  with 
frightened  eyes  about  the  room. 

Dawn  was  breaking.  The  eerie,  grey  light 
showed  her  the  embroidered  linen  coverlet 
on  her  bed,  the  spindle-legged  dressing-table 
which  had  once  stood  in  the  little  white  bed- 
room upstairs,  the  flowered  curtains  at  the 
window,  the  bowl  of  sweet  peas  on  the  table  at 
which  she  had  been  sitting. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  moved  close 
to  the  window. 

The  air  thrilled  with  the  voices  of  the  birds. 
The  trees  were  still  motionless,  as  though 
waiting  for  the  sun  ;  and  grey  with  dew,  the 
meadows  stretched  away  towards  the  dim 
horizon.  In  the  rose-garden  on  the  right, 
beneath  the  sheltering  wall,  the  sun-dial 
glimmered  white  as  pearl  in  the  dawn-light 


CH.  m.  ANNE   PAGE  59 

The  candle  flared  up,  and  went  out  with 
a  flicker. 

Anne  turned,  and  groping  her  way  in  the 
half  light,  replaced  the  book  in  the  drawer,  and 
touched  the  spring  which  closed  it. 


IV 

AT  four  o'clock,  Sylvia  Carfax  swung  the  gate 
of  the  Vicarage  garden  behind  her,  and  stepped 
into  the  dusty  road. 

It  was  nearly  a  mile  to  Fairholme  Court, 
and  the  sun  blazed  in  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue, 
and  beat  upon  her  shoulders  protected  only  by 
a  blouse  of  thin  muslin. 

Sylvia  was  just  twenty,  tall  slim,  and,  as 
Miss  Page  suggested  very  pretty. 

In  her  own  mind  Anne  often  wondered 
when  she  looked  at  the  girl's  rich  black  hair, 
which  made  such  a  striking  contrast  to  eyes 
blue  as  the  sky,  that  from  the  shelter  of 
the  Vicarage  and  all  it  represented  such  a 
southern,  opulent  type  of  beauty  should  have 
emerged. 

To  reach  her  destination  Sylvia  had  to 
walk  through  the  village,  past  the  blacksmith's, 
and  past  the  baker's  shop,  with  its  quaint 
carving  over  the  entrance  porch. 

Dymfield  was  an  ideally  beautiful  village, 

to  which  even  the  doctor's  motor-car  scarcely 

60 


CH.  iv.  ANNE    PAGE  61 

brought  more  than  a  hint  of  the  rush  and  hurry 
and  ugliness  of  much  of  modern  life. 

o 

In  the  gardens  of  the  thatched  cottages, 
summer  flowers  made  a  blaze  of  colour.  Roses 
and  honeysuckle  clambered  over  porch  and 
roof. 

The  church,  resting  peacefully  in  the  green 
sea  of  the  churchyard,  was  like  some  great 
rock,  stained  with  lichen,  crumbling  with  age, 
beautiful  in  its  decay. 

Near  it,  under  the  shade  of  mighty  elms, 
was  a  row  of  almshouses,  fine  specimens  of 
black-and-white  work,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
rambling  street  stood  the  old  well,  with  its 
canopy  of  wrought  iron,  and  its  ancient  moss- 
grown  steps. 

As  she  passed  through  the  village  in 
which  from  babyhood  she  had  lived,  Sylvia 
recognized  its  beauty  and  its  peace.  It  seemed 
a  place  where  it  was  always  afternoon,  and  for 
that  reason,  to  the  girl  who  yearned  for  the 
morning,  herself  in  the  glad  confident  morning 
of  life,  it  was  intolerable. 

She  gave  herself  an  impatient  little  shake, 
and  hurried  on. 

Now,  across  the  green,  the  beeches  of 
Fairholme  Court  were  in  sight. 

In  summer  they  almost  completely  screened 
the  house,  and  made  deep  shadows  in  the 


62  ANNE   PAGE  en.  iv. 

drive.  Thankfully  Sylvia  plunged  into  the 
shade  and  quickened  her  steps. 

The  hall  door  was  wide  open,  revealing 
the  coolness  of  the  white-panelled  hall,  and  as 
she  entered,  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  scent 
of  flowers. 

She  stopped  a  moment  to  bend  over  a 
great  bowl  of  sweet  peas. 

"  Everything  is  peaceful  here  too,"  she 
thought.  "But  it's  interesting  as  well.  I 
wonder  why  ?  " 

The  appearance  of  Burks,  immaculate  as 
usual  in  snowy  cap  and  apron,  interrupted  her 
vague  musing. 

"  Mistress  is  upstairs  in  her  sitting-room. 
I'll  tell  her  you're  here,  miss." 

"  Thank  you  Burks,  she  expects  me.  I'll 
go  up." 

The  maid  disappeared,  and  Sylvia  ran  up 
the  shallow  stairs  to  the  first  floor,  and  knocked 
at  a  door  on  the  right. 

"  Ah !  my  dear  child  !  " 

Anne  half  rose  from  a  couch  which  was 
placed  close  to  the  window. 

The  matting  blinds  outside  were  half  drawn 
to  keep  out  the  glare  of  the  sun,  and  the  room 
was  filled  with  a  light  soft  and  green,  as  though 
it  had  filtered  through  a  canopy  of  leaves. 
Beneath  the  blinds  one  caught  a  glimpse  of 


CH.  iv.  ANNE   PAGE  63 

one  of  the  rose-gardens.  Protected  by  a  yew 
hedge,  roses  of  all  colours  lifted  their  sweet, 
hot  faces  to  the  sun.  A  grass  path  running 
down  the  middle  of  the  garden  ended  at  a 
white  seat,  in  a  bower  of  white  blossom. 

Sylvia  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  I  believe  all 
the  delicious  scents  in  the  world  are  here ! " 
she  exclaimed. 

"  That's  why  I  like  this  room  in  the  after- 
noon," said  Anne.  "The  sun  draws  all  the 
sweetness  out  of  the  roses,  and  sends  it  up 
here.  Take  off  your  hat,  my  child.  You've 
had  a  tiring  walk,  I'm  afraid." 

"  I'd  walk  twenty  miles  in  the  sun  to  find 
you  at  the  end  of  them,"  declared  Sylvia, 
vehemently. 

Anne  laughed,  as  she  got  up  and  rang  the 
bell  for  tea. 

Her  white  wrapper  of  cambric  and  lace 
trailed  after  her  as  she  moved.  Sylvia  touched 
it  with  reverent  fingers. 

"You  look  so  sweet  in  these  things,"  she 
said. 

"  I  ought  to  have  changed  my  gown  pro- 
perly to  receive  you.  But  I  was  reading,  and 
too  lazy  to  move*" 

Sylvia  picked  up  the  book  which  lay  on  the 
sofa. 

"  French,  I  see  by  the  yellow  cover."     She 


64  ANNE   PAGE  en.  iv. 

began  to  turn  over  the  leaves,  and  suddenly 
laughed. 

"  How  like  you  to  have  a  rose-leaf  for  a 
book-marker !  /  should  put  in  a  hairpin,  or 
something  equally  ugly.  I  wish  I  could  read 
French  easily,  then  you  would  lend  me  all  your 
books,  wouldn't  you,  Miss  Page?" 

"  Not  all  of  them,"  returned  Anne,  smiling. 

"  Why  not  ?  I'm  sure  you  haven't  got 
stupid  ideas  about  proper  reading  for  young 
girls,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  declared 
Sylvia,  petulantly. 

"  I've  got  ideas  on  the  subject,  stupid  or 
otherwise.  Tea,  please  Burks.  We'll  have 
it  up  here.  And  bring  the  pink  tea-service. 
It  goes  so  nicely  with  this  room,"  she  ex- 
plained to  Sylvia  in  parenthesis. 

"  Do  tell  me  why  you  wouldn't  lend  me  all 
your  novels  ?  "  the  girl  persisted. 

"  Because  certain  books  my  dear  are  of 
no  use  to  us  till  life  makes  them  intelligible. 
And  life  can  only  be  learnt  by  living  it." 

"  I  wish  I'd  lived  it  then,"  protested  Sylvia. 

"  Oh  Sylvia,  there's  time  enough.  Don't 
wish  that,"  returned  Miss  Page,  quickly.  She 
bent  forward  and  took  the  girl's  hand.  "  Don't 
wish  your  youth  away.  It  goes  so  fast  in  any 
case.  And  it  should  be  the  most  beautiful 
part  of  one's  life." 


CH.  iv.  ANNE   PAGE  65 

"  Should  be  /  "  replied  Sylvia,  passionately. 
"  But  is  it  ?  What's  the  good  of  my  youth  to 
me,  here  in  this  dull  little  hole  ?  I'd  give  the 
world  to  be  like  you,  Miss  Page.  You're  not 
— not  quite  young,  perhaps " 

"  My  dear,  I'm  almost  an  old  woman." 

Her  smile  was  wistful,  though  it  was 
touched  with  amusement. 

"  You'll  never  be  that ! "  returned  Sylvia, 
vehemently.  "  And  anyhow,  you're  lovely, 
and  every  one  adores  you.  And  you  lead 
your  own  life  and  make  it  beautiful.  And 
I'm  perfectly  certain  that  you  have  had  every- 
thing I  want.  Except  that  you're  not  married. 
I  suppose  I  shall  want  to  be  married  some  time 
or  other.  But,  then,  as  you  didn't  marry  it 
must  have  been  because  you  didn't  want  to. 
Hundreds  of  men  must  have  been  dying  to 
marry  you.  I'm  sure  hundreds  are  dying 
now " 

"  What  an  awful  picture  of  carnage ! " 
interrupted  Anne,  laughing,  as  Burks  appeared 
with  the  tea. 

"  What  a  lovely  tea-service !  "  Sylvia  ex- 
claimed, taking  up  one  of  the  Sevres  cups 
gently  to  examine  it.  "  But  then  everything 
of  yours  is  lovely.  This  room  is  as  perfect 
as  the  drawing-room,  and  I  think  I  like  it 
almost  better.  I  love  the  white  matting  on 


66  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  iv. 

the  floor,  and  these  green-and- white  chair- 
covers  and  curtains.  And  I  love  a  room  lined 
with  books.  What  a  lot ! " 

She  began  to  walk  round  examining  them. 
"  But  heaps  of  them  are  French  ones,  so  you 
needn't  be  afraid,"  she  added  mischievously. 
"  Oh,  and  Italian  too !  Do  you  read  Italian, 
Miss  Page  ?  Really  ?  I  ought  to  be  afraid 
of  you.  You're  so  awfully  clever.  I  believe 
you  keep  everything  you  love  best  up  here, 
don't  you  ?  The  pictures  now — I  don't  under- 
stand pictures,  but  I  like  the  colour  of  these. 
This  room  seems  more  you  than  all  the  rest  of 
the  house.  Though  it's  all  like  you  in  a 
way." 

"  I  only  receive  my  special  visitors  up 
here." 

Anne's  smile  flattered  and  touched  the  girl. 

She  slipped  down  on  to  the  sofa  beside  her 
friend,  and  moved  close  to  her  with  a  caressing 
movement,  as  she  took  the  tea-cup  from  her 
hand. 

"These  cakes  were  baked  expressly  for 
you,  so  you  must  do  them  justice.  Really 
cook  makes  them  very  prettily,  doesn't  she  ? 
They're  rather  like  the  cakes  in  Goblin 
Market.  Do  you  remember  how  the  sisters 

*  Kneaded  cakes  of  whitest  wheat, 
Cakes  for  dainty  mouths  to  eat  ? '/' 


en.  iv.  ANNE    PAGE  67 

She  passed  them  to  Sylvia  in  their  silver 
basket,  over  the  rim  of  which  fell  a  d'oyley 
of  fine  lace  and  linen. 

Sylvia  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  know 
anything ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  shall  never 
know  anything  if  I  stay  here.  Oh  Miss 
Page,  do  help  me  to  get  away !  You  can  do 
anything  with  father.  Please  persuade  him 
that  I  ought  to  go.  You  know  how  it  is  at 
home.  I'm  not  really  wanted.  We're  quite 
comfortably  off,  and  there  are  enough  servants 
to  do  the  work  without  making  work  for  me,  to 
try  to  keep  me  quiet  when  I'm  aching  to  go 
and  make  my  own  life  !  " 

She  pushed  her  cup  away  from  her  with  an 
impatient  movement. 

Anne  waited  a  moment.  "  It's  still  the 
music,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  have  got  a  voice.  I  know  I  could 
do  something  with  it.  And  you  see  they  don't 
understand.  Mother  says  I  can  take  lessons 
from  Miss  Rowe  at  Dorminster.  Miss  Rowe  I " 
She  laughed  derisively.  "  And  father  says  if 
I  sing  well  enough  to  please  them  at  home, 
and  to  lead  in  the  choir,  what  more  do  I 
want  ?  They  expect  me  to  trot  round  with 
mother  on  her  district  calls,  when  I'm  really 
only  in  the  way.  Mother  likes  doing  it.  She 
wouldn't  give  up  her  work  to  me  even  if  I 


68  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  iv. 

wished  it.  And  I'm  supposed  to  do  needle- 
work for  the  children,  when  poor  Mrs.  Jones 
down  the  village  would  be  glad  of  it,  and 
ought  to  have  it.  And  they  think  I'm  awful 
and  ungrateful  not  to  be  quite  happy  with 
tennis  parties  and  flower  shows  for  my 
amusement !  Oh  Miss  Page,  don't  you  think 
to  be  a  daughter  at  home,  with  no  money, 
at  the  mercy  of  your  parents,  unable  to  get 
away,  is  just  like  being  a  slave  ?  " 

She  poured  out  the  words  passionately. 
Her  hands  were  shaking,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

Anne  looked  at  her,  and  a  wave  of  compre- 
hension and  pity  passed  over  her  heart. 

The  girl's  incoherent  words  were  echoes  ; 
they  touched  painful  memories  of  years  for  her, 
long  past. 

She  recognized  the  despairing  cry  of  youth, 
articulate  in  these  modern  times,  no  longer 
stifled  as  in  the  days  of  her  own  girlhood. 

Youth,  fettered,  struggling  with  passionate 
clamour  to  be  free. 

She  recognized  the  revolt  of  a  tempera- 
ment unsuited  to  its  environment,  bound  by 
a  tyranny  no  less  stifling  because  it  was  un- 
conscious and  even  loving. 

She  rose,  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room,  conscious  of  the  modern  spirit,  accept- 
ing it  as  inevitable,  and  in  spite  of  all  the 


CH.  iv.  ANNE   PAGE  69 

misery  it  involved,  right  in  its  essence,  a 
necessary  step  towards  the  just  claim  for 
individual  liberty. 

Sylvia  watched  her  hungrily,  like  a  prisoner 
who  has  staked  his  existence  on  the  goodwill 
and  clemency  of  a  ruler. 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can,  Sylvia,"  she  said  at 
last.  "  I  will  speak  to  your  father.  I  think 
you  ought  to  go." 

The  girl's  face  grew  radiant.  "  Oh,  you're 
an  angel!"  she  cried.  "What  should  I  do 
without  you  ?  Speak  to  him  soon,  Miss 
Page ! "  she  implored.  "  I  can't  bear  it  any 
longer.  I  really  can't.  I  get  on  so  badly 
with  father  now,  and  with  mother  too.  I 
can't  help  it.  I  know  I've  got  an  awful 
temper,  but  they  irritate  me  so,  and " 

Anne  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  sofa.  "  I 
will  speak  to  your  father,"  she  repeated.  "  But, 
my  dear,  I  know  it's  a  hard,  perhaps  almost  an 
impossible  thing  to  ask  you,  but  try  to  see  your 
parents'  point  of  view  as  well  as  your  own. 
They  have  one,  you  know,"  she  added,  smiling. 
"  One  that  belongs  to  their  age  and  the  tra- 
ditions of  their  education.  To  them,  though 
you  don't  believe  it,  their  standpoint  is  as 
important  as  yours  to  you." 

"  But  you  think  mine  is  right  ?  "  demanded 
Sylvia,  breathlessly. 


yo  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  iv. 

Miss  Page  laughed.  "  For  you,  yes.  But 
I'm  sorry  for  your  people." 

"  I  believe  you're  sorry  for  every  one,"  said 
Sylvia,  after  a  pause. 

"  There's  a  tendency  to  get  sorrier  for  most 
people  as  one  gets  older,  I  admit.  You  must 
bear  with  me,  Sylvia." 

The  girl  flushed.  "  Now  you're  laughing 
at  me,"  she  said. 

"  No.  Only  remembering  how  I  felt  at 
your  age,  and  being  very  sorry  for  you 
too." 

"  Ought  I  to  see  every  one's  point  of  view 
as  you  do  ?  " 

"  You  couldn't.  It's  not  to  be  expected  of 
you.  And  after  all,  it's  right  that  you  shouldn't. 
It's  the  young  who  make  history,  and  history 
is  made  by  seeing  one  thing  at  a  time  to  the 
exclusion  of  every  other  consideration.  It's 
only  in  the  autumn  of  life  that  one  has  time 
to  be  sorry.  But  still  my  dear,  you  can  be 
kind  even  without  comprehension.  Remember 
the  immortal  remark  that  our  parents  are 
fellow-creatures  after  all." 

She  looked  at  the  girl  whimsically,  and 
Sylvia  laughed. 

"  How  angry  father  would  be  to  hear  you 
say  that ! "  she  cried.  "  But  you  wouldn't  say 
it  to  him,  of  course,"  she  added. 


CH.  iv.  ANNE   PAGE  71 

"  You  know  it's  only  nonsense ;  and  there's 
such  a  thing  as  tact,  my  dear." 

"  I  know,"  sighed  Sylvia.  "  I  haven't  got 
any." 

"  That's  another  of  the  things  that  comes 
with  age." 

"  All  the  nice  things  come  with  age,  I 
believe." 

"Well,  age  should  have  some  compensa- 
tions," returned  Anne,  gaily. 

"  You  have  all  of  them,"  Sylvia  declared. 
"  All  the  pretty  things  that  generally  belong  to 
girls,  and  all  the  interesting  things  that  ought 
to  belong  to  women.  It  isn't  fair.  You  know 
how  to  talk  to  every  one.  I  should  love  to  hear 
what  you  say  to  father.  It  would  be  too 
amusing!  Mrs.  Dakin  came  in  this  morning, 
and  said  you  were  wonderful  with  the  French- 
man who  dined  here  last  night.  And  the  way 
you  talk  to  Dr.  Dakin  is  quite  different  from 
the  way  you  talk  to  father.  And  of  course, 
you're  quite  different  with  me  again.  You 
always  remind  me  of  that  verse  in  the  Bible 
about  being  all  things  to  all  men  ! " 

"  You're  really  a  terrible  young  woman  !  " 
was  Miss  Page's  reply.  "  Go  and  sing  me 
something.  It's  the  only  way  to  stop  you 
from  proving  me  a  monster  of  duplicity." 

"  No,    no,"  urged  Sylvia,  eagerly.     "  You 


72  ANNE    PAGE  ci-i.  iv. 

only  speak  to  people  as  they  can  understand. 
But  the  wonderful  thing  is,  that  you  know  by 
instinct  exactly  what  they  will  understand, 
and  exactly  how  to  say  it." 

"  Go  and  sing,"  repeated  Anne. 

Sylvia  went  laughing  to  the  piano.  "  I 
feel  awfully  happy.  I  must  think  of  something 
that  suits." 

She  considered  a  moment,  and  then  broke 
into  a  gay  little  love-song,  with  a  charming 
refrain. 

Anne  listened,  and  as  she  listened,  her 
determination  grew.  Sylvia  was  right.  She 
must  go.  Her  voice  was  worth  cultivating, 
even  at  the  price  of  parental  displeasure. 

"  Thank  you  dear,"  she  said  as  the  clear, 
ringing  notes  ceased.  "  I  feel  as  though  a 
nightingale  with  brains  had  been  kind  enough 
to  fly  into  my  room." 

"  What  else  would  you  like  ? "  Sylvia 
turned  her  head  as  she  sat  at  the  piano, 
playing  rippling  notes  with  her  left  hand. 
The  cloud  had  left  her  face,  and  her  parted 
red  lips  were  very  sweet. 

Anne  hesitated  a  moment.  "  You  read 
music  easily,  don't  you  ?  I  wonder  whether 
you  could  sing  me  a  little  French  song  ?  " 

She  got  up,  and  opening  a  cupboard  in  the 
wall,  began  to  turn  over  some  papers. 


CH.  iv.  ANNE   PAGE  73 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said  at  last. 

Sylvia  left  her  place,  and  knelt  beside  her 
friend's  chair,  taking  the  music  from  her  hand. 

There  were  some  words  upon  the  cover, 
but  they  were  in  French,  and  in  a  difficult 
handwriting. 

Anne  opened  the  page  rather  quickly. 
"You  see  it's  quite  short  and  quite  simple," 
she  observed. 

"  Let  me  read  the  words  first,  and  you  must 
correct  my  pronunciation." 

She  began  to  say  the  lines  a  little  falter- 
ingly,  but  her  quick  ear  soon  found  their  lilt, 
and  she  read  them  well. 

"  How  pretty  !  They're  quite  easy  words. 
I  can  understand  them,"  she  said,  going  to  the 
piano  again.  "  Who  wrote  them  ? " 

Anne  did  not  answer,  and  Sylvia,  en- 
grossed in  trying  the  accompaniment,  forgot 
her  question. 

"  I  see  how  it  goes  ! "  she  exclaimed,  playing 
the  first  bars.  Involuntarily,  as  she  began  the 
first  bar,  Miss  Page  put  out  a  quick  hand  as 
though  to  stop  her,  but  the  girl  sang  on  un- 
consciously, and  the  hand  dropped  at  her 
side. 

"  It's  lovely  1 "  Sylvia  cried,  playing  the  last 
notes  softly  over  again. 

'*  Thank    you,   dear,"    said   Anne,   gently. 


74  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  iv. 

She  had  crossed  the  room,  and  was  trying  on 
her  garden  hat. 

With  one  hand  she  gathered  up  the  folds 
of  her  long  gown. 

"  The  sun  is  off  the  roses  now,  and  I'm 
going  to  give  you  some  to  take  home  to  your 
mother.  Come  out  and  help  me  pick  them." 


V 

DR.  DAKIN'S  house  stood  in  the  village  street. 
It  was  a  plain  Georgian  dwelling  of  a  type 
common  to  every  English  country  town ;  a 
type  which  admirably  combines  comfort  with 
a  certain  homely  dignity. 

It  was  covered  with  ivy,  carefully  trimmed 
where  the  rows  of  square-paned  windows  broke 
the  front,  and  its  long,  narrow  door  was  sur- 
mounted by  the  conventional  classic  design  of 
skulls  and  garlands. 

As  Miss  Page  crossed  the  road  towards  the 
post-office  one  morning  late  in  September, 
Mrs.  Dakin  tapped  at  the  window  of  the 
breakfast-room,  and  then  ran  to  the  door. 

Anne  smiled  as  she  crossed  the  threshold. 
"  Why,  Madge,  what  is  it  ?  You  look  radiant, 
my  dear ! " 

"  I  am.  I  mean  I  feel  radiant.  Come  in. 
Do  come  in.  I  want  to  tell  you." 

Her  voice  shook  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment, as  Anne  followed  her  across  the  stone- 
flagged  hall  to  a  room  on  the  right. 

75 


76  ANNE   PAGE  en.  v. 

"  I'm  going  to  Paris  for  a  long  visit !  "  she 
exclaimed,  drawing  up  a  chair  for  her  friend 
close  to  the  window.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
that  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  friends  in  Paris." 

"Oh  yes.  Didn't  I  ever  tell  you  about 
Helen  Didier  ?  She  was  one  of  my  school- 
fellows at  the  convent  near  Tours,  where  I 
went  for  a  year.  She  married  a  Frenchman." 

"  And  she  lives  in  Paris  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  haven't  seen  her  for  ages — 
scarcely  once  since  we  both  married.  But  I 
took  it  into  my  head  to  write  to  her  a  week 
or  two  ago,  and  just  fancy  !  You'll  be  awfully 
interested.  She  knows  Monsieur  Fontenelle 
quite  well.  Her  husband  is  a  friend  of  his." 

Anne  looked  up  rather  quickly.    "  Really  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Isn't  it  strange  ?  I  happened  to 
mention  him  when  I  wrote  to  her,  and  she 
knew  all  about  him.  She  would,  naturally,  as 
he's  such  a  great  man  ;  but  it's  awfully  exciting 
that  he  should  be  a  friend,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  What  does  Harry  say  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

"  Oh,  he  doesn't  mind.  He  says  it  will  do 
me  good  to  have  a  change." 

"He  will  miss  you  horribly,  my  dear." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  He's  so 
busy,  you  know.  And  when  he's  at  home, 
he's  always  buried  in  his  books.  Besides,  he 


CH.  v.  ANNE    PAGE  77 

knows  I  must  have  a  change.  My  nerves 
get  worse  and  worse,  and  I'm  always  having 
neuralgia.  I  sleep  badly,  too." 

"You  mustn't  look  so  brilliant,  then," 
returned  Anne,  laughing.  "  You'll  be  con- 
sidered a  fraud." 

"  It's  nothing  but  joy,"  Madge  declared. 
"  You  know  I've  never  been  to  Paris.  And 
just  think  of  getting  out  of  this  hole  for  two 
or  three  months,  perhaps.  I  could  scream  with 
excitement  at  the  bare  idea ! " 

"  When  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  Next  month.  I  shall  be  awfully  interested 
to  meet  Monsieur  Fontenelle  again,"  she  added. 
"  He's  so  clever,  isn't  he  ?  I'm  rather  afraid 
of  him.  I  envy  you  for  getting  on  with  him  so 
well." 

Anne  smiled. 

"  Why  has  he  never  been  to  see  you 
before  ?  " 

"  He's  not  often  in  England  now,  though  he 
travels  a  great  deal,  and  is  very  cosmopolitan." 

"  How  on  earth  has  he  learnt  to  speak 
English  so  perfectly  ?  " 

"He  has  English  relations — Lady  Farring- 
church  is  one  of  them.  And  as  a  young  man 
he  studied  over  here  with  a  friend.  But  in 
any  case  he's  a  wonderful  linguist  naturally." 

"What  interesting  people  you  must  have 


78  ANNE   PAGE  en.  v. 

met!"  exclaimed  Madge,  looking  rather  curi- 
ously at  her  visitor.  "  I  suppose  you  met  him 
during  all  those  years  you  were  travelling  ?  I 
often  wonder  how  you  stand  this  miserable  little 
dead-and-alive  place.  You  must  have  had  such 
an  exciting  life." 

Anne  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  at  last  quietly,  "  when 
you  come  to  my  age,  your  garden,  your  books, 
and  your  friends  make  a  very  pleasant  haven 
before  you  set  sail." 

"And  your  memories,  I  suppose?"  Madge 
glanced  again  swiftly  at  her  friend. 

"And  your  memories — yes,"  Anne  re- 
peated. 

"  I  shall  have  none,"  declared  Madge, 
restlessly.  "  None  that  count." 

Miss  Page  was  silent.  "  Oh  !  I  know  you 
think  me  an  ungrateful  wretch  !"  she  broke 
out,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  tapping  her 
foot  impatiently.  "  Harry's  very  good  and  all 
that.  But  I'm  so  bored.  I'm  bored  from 
morning  till  night.  When  I  get  up  every 
morning  I  think — '  Here's  another  dull  day, 
what  on  earth  shall  I  do  with  it  ? '  And  some- 
times it  doesn't  seem  worth  while  to  get  up 
and  go  on." 

Anne  watched  her  as  she  stared  moodily 
into  the  narrow  trim  garden,  discontent  and 


CH.  v.  ANNE   PAGE  79 

listlessness  plainly  expressed  by  her  eyes  and 
drooping  mouth. 

She  was  a  woman  loved  faithfully  and  with 
infinite  tenderness.  If  she  had  allowed  them 
expression,  Anne's  reflection  would  have  been 
translated  by  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  both  of  them 
utterly  unintelligible  to  the  little  woman  at 
her  side.  Both  of  them  were  therefore  re- 
pressed. 

"Well!"  she  said  aloud.  "I  hope  you'll 
have  a  very  gay  time.  I'm  very  glad  for  you, 
my  dear.  Go  and  be  happy.  Where  does 
your  friend  live  ?  " 

"Over  by  the  Pare  Monceau,  wherever 
that  is.  Do  tell  me  what  it's  like  ? "  she 
begged,  all  animation  again. 

Anne  stayed  a  few  minutes  longer,  talking 
about  Paris,  and  then  rose  to  go. 

Mrs.  Dakin  kissed  her  affectionately.  "  I 
wish  you  were  going  with  me.  I  shall  miss 
you  horribly !  "  she  declared. 

She  followed  Anne  to  the  door,  and  stood 
a  moment,  waving  and  smiling  as  her  friend 
crossed  the  street. 

All  the  bored  discontent  had  vanished  from 
her  face,  and  her  husband,  who  at  the  moment 
drove  up  in  his  car,  thought  she  had  never 
looked  prettier. 

The  reflection  was  accompanied  by  a  curious 


8o  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  v. 

dull  pain  at  his  heart,  a  pain  to  which  he  was 
well  accustomed. 

"I'll  drive  you  home,"  he  called  to  Miss 
Page,  stopping  his  car  at  the  opposite  pave- 
ment. 

"  So  Madge  is  going  to  Paris  ?  "  she  said, 
as  they  swept  off. 

"Yes.  I  hope  it  will  do  her  good,"  he 
returned  shortly.  "  She  complains  of  neur- 
algia. Perhaps  a  change  will  set  that  right. 
I  hear  the  little  Carfax  girl  is  going  to  London 
to  study  this  autumn  ? "  he  added  after  a 
moment.  "  She's  off  her  head  with  delight 
about  it.  That's  your  doing,  of  course." 

"Well,  I  suggested  it  to  her  father,"  Anne 
admitted. 

He  laughed.  "  We  all  know  your  sugges- 
tions. When  a  witch  'suggests,'  mere  man 
is  instantly  hypnotized.  Poor  old  Carfax  can 
do  nothing  now,  but  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  produce  the  necessary  fees." 

Anne  smiled.  "  Come  in  and  look  at  my 
hollyhocks,"  she  said,  as  they  turned  into  the 
drive.  "  They're  really  worth  seeing." 

The  doctor  followed  her  through  the  house 
and  across  the  lawn  into  one  of  the  walled 
gardens.  "  How  gorgeous  ! "  he  exclaimed,  as 
she  opened  the  gate. 

The  enclosure  was  a  bla^e  of  colour.   Wine- 


CH.  v.  ANNE   PAGE  81 

red,  white  faintly  flushed  with  pink,  yellow 
soft  as  a  sunset  sky,  the  flowers  stood  close 
together  in  stately  rows. 

Behind  them,  on  either  side  of  the  dividing 
grass  path,  masses  of  phlox,  white  and  rose  and 
crimson,  continued  the  wave  of  colour  till  it 
was  arrested  by  the  enclosing  walls. 

"  Look  at  the  butterflies,"  said  the  doctor, 
instinctively  lowering  his  voice  as  though  he 
feared  to  disturb  them. 

They  hovered  in  numbers  above  the  silken 
cups  of  the  hollyhocks.  On  the  sulphur- 
coloured  petals  of  one  of  them,  a  Purple 
Emperor,  motionless,  extended  his  splendid 
wings.  Here  and  there,  dazzling  in  fairy 
armour  of  peacock-blue  and  sheen  of  silver, 
darted  a  dragon-fly. 

"The  colour  of  the  thing  is  intoxicating," 
murmured  Dr.  Dakin. 

"  It  reminded  me  this  morning  of  an  elabo- 
rately arranged  '  sensation '  scheme,  planned 
by  that  madman  in  A  Rebours.  Only  of 
course,  he  would  have  despised  such  a  homely 
natural  flower  as  the  hollyhock." 

The  doctor  smiled.  "What  a  curious 
anomaly  you  are  here,  my  dear  lady ! "  he 
declared  suddenly.  "And  yet  that's  not  true 
either,  because  you  also  suit  the  place  to 
perfection.  Huysmans,  and  a  country  practice, 

G 


82  ANNE   PAGE  en.  v. 

and  Carfax — and  you  !  It's  an  amazing  world. 
I  hope  some  intelligent  Being  doesn't  miss  the 
exquisite  humour  of  many  human  juxtaposi- 
tions," he  added  rather  drily. 

"  I'm  glad  Sylvia's  going  to  study,"  was 
Miss  Page's  somewhat  irrelevant  reply.  "  She 
has  a  beautiful  voice." 

"  Quite  remarkable,"  he  agreed.  "  She'll 
be  a  difficult  young  woman  though,  if  that 
face  of  hers  means  anything.  I  don't  know 
that  you  haven't  thrown  her  to  the  lions." 

"  My  dear  doctor,  isn't  it  better  to  meet 
the  lions,  and  take  one's  chance,  than  to  be 
preyed  upon  by  restlessness  and  discontent 
till  the  whole  of  one's  character  is  worm- 
eaten  ?  "  asked  Anne,  quietly. 

The  doctor  stooped  to  examine  the  Purple 
Emperor  which  still  lay  motionless,  basking 
in  the  sunshine. 

When  he  raised  his  head  Anne  saw  the 
trouble  in  his  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,"  he  said.  Then 
abruptly,  after  a  moment,  "  I  wish  I  could  give 
Madge  the  life  that  would  suit  her ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, jerking  out  the  words  awkwardly. 

Miss  Page  waited  a  moment.  "  What  do 
you  think  would  suit  her  ?  "  she  asked  gently. 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  She 
wants  to  live  in  London,  you  know.  She 


CH.  v.  ANNE    PAGE  83 

wants  a  gayer  life.  But  I  should  be  no  use  in 
town.  I  shouldn't  make  a  living  even.  I 
haven't  the  manner.  It's  as  much  as  I  can  do 
to  hold  my  own  here." 

"  Every  one  who  knows  you,  ends  by  being 
thankful  to  find  a  splendid  friend  as  well  as  an 
excellent  doctor,"  returned  Anne. 

The  bitterness  in  his  face  softened.  "If 
all  the  world  were  like  you,"  he  began  with  a 
little  laugh,  and  paused.  "  I'm  glad  they're 
not,  though.  There  must  only  be  one  Miss 
Page.  But  that's  it,"  he  went  on,  "  I  must 
know  people  well — better  than  one  could  ever 
know  them  in  the  rush  of  a  London  practice, 
where  the  polished  manner  I  don't  possess  is 
absolutely  necessary." 

There  was  a  silence,  while  they  walked  the 
length  of  the  grass  path  together. 

"  I  ought  never  to  have  married  Madge," 
he  broke  out  at  last,  in  a  low  voice.  "  She's  too 
pretty,  and  too  gay  by  nature,  for  a  slow  coach 
like  me.  This  village  life  is  too  dull  for  her. 
She  wants  her  dances,  her  theatres " —  he 
made  a  vague  gesture  —  "all  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  can't  make  her  happy." 

There  was  a  note  of  sad  discouragement 
in  his  voice  which  went  to  his  listener's  heart. 

"  I  think  you  could,"  she  said. 

He  turned   his   head   sharply.     "  How  ?  " 


84  ANNE    PAGE  en.  v. 

The  involuntary  hope  died.  He  shook  his 
head.  "  She's  bored  with  me." 

"  Partly  I  think,  because  she  imagines  you 
are  bored  with  her." 

He  started.  "/?  Bored  with  Madge?" 
He  stopped,  as  though  suddenly  arrested,  and 
stood  staring  down  at  the  grass.  "  I — I  don't 
think  you  understand  how  much  I — care  for 
Madge.  She's  the  only  woman  I  ever  wanted 
to  marry.  I " 

His  voice  failed.  Miss  Page  saw  that  his 
face  was  working. 

"  I  do  know.  Better  than  any  one, 
perhaps.  But  I  don't  think  you  understand 
her." 

He  looked  at  her  mutely,  waiting  for  her 
next  words. 

"  You  think  of  her  as  a  butterfly,  don't 
you  ?  A  woman  with  no  brains,  perhaps  ? 
Oh !  I  know,"  she  interrupted,  as  he  made 
a  gesture  of  protest.  "  I  know  that  would 
make  no  difference."  She  smiled  a  little.  "  A 
man  doesn't  want  the  woman  he  loves  to  have 
brains.  But  they  are  useful  sometimes.  In 
her  case  they  may  be  very  useful.  She  would 
like  a  life  of  gaiety,  of  course.  She's  young 
and  pretty,  and  it's  only  natural.  But  she 
can't  have  it.  Very  well  then,  if  she  were 
nothing  but  a  butterfly,  her  lot — and  yours, 


CH.  v.  ANNE   PAGE  85 

would  be  hard.  But  Madge  has  a  mind.  Oh, 
she's  ignorant,  of  course!  She  says  so  her- 
self. She  never  reads.  She  never  thinks. 
But  that's  habit.  No  one  has  ever  taken  any 
trouble  with  her.  Did  you  notice  how  in- 
terested she  was  the  evening  we  were  really 
talking  —  the  evening  Monsieur  Fontenelle 
dined  here  ?  She  was  proud  of  you  then. 
She  wished  she  could  take  part  in  the  conver- 
sation. Her  mind  is  empty  because  she  has 
never  troubled  to  fill  it.  But  it's  a  mind  of 
good  quality.  She  has  the  power  to  be  in- 
terested in  a  thousand  things.  You  could 
open  a  new  world  to  her,  if  you  were  careful — 
and  had  a  little  tact.  And  we  all  know  that 
you  possess  that  admirable  quality ! " 

The  flattery  of  her  smile  was  not  lost  upon 
the  doctor. 

Surprise,  involuntary  hope,  gratitude,  admi- 
ration, all  struggled  in  the  look  with  which  he 
regarded  her. 

"  You  always  say  the  right  thing," 
he  declared  simply.  "  I  didn't  know  the 

child "    He  paused,  but  there  was  a  look 

of    sudden   tenderness   in    his   eyes.     "  Well ! 
she's  going  away  now,"  he  began. 

"And  that's  such  a  good  thing,"  inter- 
rupted Miss  Page,  eagerly.  "  She  will  hear 
and  see  so  much  to  interest  her.  She  will 


86  ANNE   PAGE  CIL  v. 

come  back  with  new  impressions.  You  will 
have  something  to  work  on." 

They  strolled  out  of  the  garden  together, 
and  across  the  lawn  without  speaking. 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  doctor,  starting  as 
though  from  a  deep  reverie,  as  he  found 
himself  opposite  his  car. 

He  pressed  her  hand  warmly.  "  You  have 
made  me  much  happier,"  he  added  shyly. 

"  But  don't  forget  to  tell  her  very  often 
that  you  love  her,  and  that  she's  the  prettiest 
thing  in  the  world ! "  Miss  Page  admonished 
him,  with  a  laugh.  "  There  are  remarks  which 
never  bore  a  woman,  however  many  times 
they  are  repeated.  Those  are  two  of  them." 


VI 

THE  midday  post  had  come  while  Miss  Page 
and  the  doctor  talked  in  the  garden. 

As  she  passed  through  the  hall  after  the 
motor-car  had  disappeared,  Anne  found  her 
letters  lying  upon  the  table. 

She  turned  them  over,  and  lighted  with 
satisfaction  upon  one  with  a  foreign  postmark. 

Her  correspondence  with  Frangois  Fon- 
tenelle  —  a  correspondence  of  fifteen  years' 
duration — had  never  ceased  to  be  a  pleasure 
to  her. 

She  picked  up  his  letter,  and  went  through 
the  inner  hall  into  the  garden,  to  the  seat 
under  the  beech  tree. 

Several  things  on  the  first  page  made  her 
laugh.  Frangois  was  evidently  in  a  gay  mood 
when  he  wrote.  He  had  more  work  with 
portraits  than  he  could  get  through.  He 
described  his  sitters  with  the  light  raillery 
he  managed  so  well,  presenting  them  to  his 
reader  with  a  felicity  of  phrase,  a  touch  as 
skilful  and  clever  as  she  well  knew  the  portraits 
themselves  must  possess. 

87 


88  ANNE   PAGE  en.  vi. 

It  was  better  to  be  Frangois  Fontenelle's 
friend  than  his  enemy,  Miss  Page  reflected, 
and  smiled  to  remember  the  rash  women  who 
now  crowded  to  his  studio,  anxious  to  be 
painted  by  the  popular  if  distinguished  artist. 

She  guessed  how  many  of  them  winced 
in  secret  at  the  result,  and  marvelled  that 
fashion,  as  well  as  religion,  should  exact  its 
willing  martyrs. 

"/  hear"  he  said  towards  the  end  of  the 
letter,  "  that  I'm  likely  to  renew  my  acquaintance 
with  your  little  friend,  Mrs.  Dakin.  By  a 
strange  chance,  the  wife  of  a  friend  of  mine, 
Louis  Didier,  knew  her  as  a  school-girl — went 
to  school  with  her,  I  think  ;  and  she  has  been 
asked  to  visit  them.  Louis  Didier  is  a  good 
fellow — an  architect.  No.  You  never  met 
him.  I  have  known  him  myself  only  two 
or  three  years.  He  belongs  to  the  younger 
generation.  Cest  un  don  garcon,  though  his 
work  is  mediocre  enough.  I  dont  like  his  wife. 
/  suspect  her  of  being  what  you  in  England 
call  a  cat,  thoiigh  to  me  she  is  amiable  enough. 
1  may  possibly  have  striick  terror  into  her  feline 
heart.  When  you  are  in  Rome  I  want  you 
to  go  again  to  the  Farnesina  Palace,  and  look 
at  the  Correggio.  You  know  the  one  I  mean  ?  " 
The  letter  ended  with  talk  about  pictures. 

Anne  read  it   to  the  last  word,  and  then 


CH.  vi.  ANNE    PAGE  89 

sat  with  it  still  unfolded  in  her  lap.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  drooping  branches  of  the 
beech  under  which  she  sat. 

Its  leaves  were  already  yellow,  and  it  rose 
like  a  fountain  of  gold  towards  the  quiet 
September  sky.  All  round  the  eaves  of  the 
house  the  swallows  were  skimming  and  crying, 
in  the  unrest  of  an  imminent  parting,  and  the 
hazy  sunshine  wrapped  the  garden  in  a  dream 
of  peace. 

Anne  too,  sat  dreaming.  Ever  since  the 
visit  of  her  friend,  earlier  in  the  summer,  her 
thoughts  had  developed  a  tendency  to  wander 
back  over  the  years  before  their  meeting. 

To-day  it  was  of  her  first  five  years  at 
Fairholme  Court  that  she  was  thinking. 

She  remembered  driving  up  to  the  house 
that  was  now  her  home. 

She  remembered  walking  through  the  hall 
into  the  drawing-room,  distressfully  conscious, 
even  through  her  shyness,  of  the  desecrated 
stateliness  of  a  dwelling  meant  for  beauty. 

True,  she  would  not  in  those  days  have 
known  with  what  to  replace  the  gaudy  Ax- 
minster  carpet  in  the  hall,  nor  the  arsenic 
green  curtains  at  the  drawing-room  windows. 
But  little  as  she  had  seen,  little  as  she 
then  knew  of  material  loveliness,  the  right 
instinct  she  possessed  for  form  and  colour  was 


9o  ANNE   PAGE  en.  vi. 

outraged  at  every  turn  by  the  indications  at 
once  trivial  and  ponderous  of  Mid- Victorian 
taste. 

As  she  entered  the  drawing-room,  Mrs. 
Burbage  rose  from  the  sofa  on  which  she  had 
been  lying,  a  woollen  rug  of  rainbow  hues 
thrown  across  her  feet. 

She  was  a  little  old  woman  with  grey, 
corkscrew  curls  hanging  in  bunches  over  her 
ears,  keen  eyes,  and  a  mouth  which  combined 
shrewdness  and  suspicion. 

She  looked  Anne  up  and  down  with  a 
penetrating  glance. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  would  have  grown 
so  tall,"  she  remarked.  "You  were  a  little 
creature  when  I  last  saw  you.  Ring  for  tea, 
my  dear,  and  then  I  dare  say  you  would  like 
to  go  to  your  room.  Parker  will  show  you. 
Make  yourself  at  home,  and  amuse  yourself 
in  your  own  way,  if  you  can  find  anything 
to  do  in  this  dull  place.  I  don't  want  you 
to  think  you  need  trouble  about  running  after 
me,  unless  I  ask  for  you.  I  hate  fuss.  There 
will  be  time  enough  for  that  when  I  get  worse." 

The  words  struck  the  keynote  of  the  future 
relationship  between  the  two  women. 

Even  at  that  time  Anne's  benefactress  was 
a  semi-invalid  who  did  not  rise  till  noon,  and 
usually  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  on  the  sofa, 


CH.  vi.  ANNE    PAGE  91 

knitting  interminably.  Her  illness,  not  at  first 
severe,  made  any  but  the  slightest  attention 
unnecessary.  She  was  a  woman  a  little 
eccentric,  often  difficult  in  temper,  but  never 
exacting  in  trifles. 

Her  great  abhorrence  was  what  she  called 
"  fuss "  of  any  sort,  and  as  she  frequently 
preferred  to  be  alone,  she  left  Anne  for  the 
most  part  free. 

Her  duties  gradually  became  those  of 
general  supervision  of  the  household,  which 
composed  as  it  was  of  elderly  well-trained 
servants,  proved  no  arduous  task. 

Few  callers  came  to  the  house.  There 
was  never  anything  in  the  nature  of  entertain- 
ment at  Fairholme  Court.  The  days  went 
on.  Monotonously,  peacefully,  spring  glided 
into  summer,  summer  to  autumn  ;  the  winters 
came  and  went. 

A  good  understanding,  a  quiet  comradeship 
was  gradually  established  between  the  old 
woman  and  her  companion,  who  moved  so 
gently,  whose  voice  was  so  soothing,  who  was 
always  at  hand  when  she  happened  to  be 
wanted — never  in  the  way  when  her  presence 
was  not  required. 

Anne  practically  led  her  own  isolated  life. 
Too  shy  to  make  any  advances,  the  people  of 
her  own  grade  in  the  village,  from  the  outset, 


92  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  vi. 

ignored  the  companion  of  a  woman  who  had 
never  been  popular.  She  was  just  a  quiet, 
harmless  creature,  lady-like  certainly,  but 
very  dull,  whom  they  occasionally  pitied  for 
being  shut  up  with  "that  disagreeable  Mrs. 
Burbage." 

Anne  found  the  bedroom  she  had  loved  as 
a  child,  now  her  own,  almost  unchanged.  The 
rosebuds  on  the  wall  were  faded  certainly,  but 
the  dimity  valance  at  the  window,  the  white 
curtains  to  the  bed  were  fresh  and  spotless, 
and  the  "spindly"  furniture  remained.  The 
white  roses  had  grown  much  taller.  They 
clambered  round  the  window  now,  and  far 
above  her  head,  looked  down  at  her  as  she 
opened  it  in  the  morning. 

The  library  was  also  unaltered,  and  in  this 
room,  and  in  the  garden,  Anne  found  all  the 
joy  of  her  life. 

She  was  permitted  to  do  what  she  liked 
with  the  garden,  and,  under  the  direction  of 
the  old  gardener,  who  rejoiced  to  find  some 
one  who  loved  the  work,  and,  delighted  in  its 
results,  Anne  planned  and  planted  and  laid 
the  foundation  for  the  beauty  that  now  sur- 
rounded her.  The  hours  in  the  open  air 
restored  her  health.  Insensibly,  she  grew 
strong  and  straight.  Her  always  graceful 
figure  developed,  and  though  it  was  marred 


CH.  vi.  ANNE   PAGE  93 

by  the  ill-cut  gowns  of  the  village  dressmaker, 
she  carried  it  superbly. 

Through  the  long  winter  days,  the  library 
was  her  solace  and  delight.  At  first,  im- 
perfectly educated  as  she  was,  unused  to 
reading,  owing  to  lack  of  time  and  lack 
of  opportunity,  she  was  bewildered  by  the 
numberless  books  through  which  she  was  free 
to  range. 

But  gradually  she  found  her  way ;  made  a 
path  for  herself,  and  followed  it  to  find  it  lead- 
ing her  to  distant  prospects.  Mr.  Burbage,  a 
gentle  and  scholarly  recluse  with  a  catholic 
taste  in  literature,  had  left  a  fine  and  widely 
representative  library  behind  him,  containing 
not  only  the  masterpieces  of  French  as  well  as 
English  prose  and  poetry,  but  many  curious 
and  rare  volumes  dealing  with  the  less  fre- 
quented roads  of  mental  travel. 

Anne  found  history,  biography,  philosophy, 
in  sufficient  quantities  to  last  her  for  a  life- 
time. 

She  found  curious  memoirs  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries,  as  well  as 
books  on  magic,  on  alchemy,  on  all  the  strange 
and  recondite  studies  which  at  various  periods 
have  exercised  human  thought.  French  litera- 
ture was  well  represented,  and  impelled  by 
interest  and  curiosity,  Anne  began  to  recall 


94  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  vi. 

the  little  of  the  language  she  had  learnt  with 
her  governess  as  a  child.  In  this  endeavour 
she  unexpectedly  found  a  ready  teacher  in 
Mrs.  Burbage,  who,  educated  in  a  French 
convent  up  to  the  time  of  her  marriage,  spoke 
the  language  fluently,  and  liked  to  speak  it. 
Naturally  gifted  as  a  linguist,  Anne  learnt 
quickly,  and  often  from  choice,  as  time  went 
on,  the  two  women  spoke  French  together, 
rather  than  English. 

But  it  was  to  the  English  poets  that  Anne 
most  often  returned.  Poetry  suited  her  nature. 
It  was  the  form  of  art  which  to  her,  most  fully 
expressed  the  heights  and  depths,  the  beauty 
and  the  terror,  the  haunting  melancholy,  the 
fear,  the  inexpressible  longings,  the  regrets,  the 
sadness,  the  innocent  delights  of  life,  which,  in 
all  its  complexity,  she  had  begun  to  recognize 
through  the  world  of  books. 

In  life,  men  went  down  to  the  sea  in  ships, 
and  did  business  in  great  waters.  In  life,  there 
had  been  beautiful  cities,  in  which  a  many- 
coloured  crowd  of  citizens  and  soldiers,  of 
artists  and  thinkers,  had  jostled  and  fought, 
and  painted  their  thoughts  in  churches,  and  on 
palace  walls ;  built  them  into  soaring  towers, 
and  mighty  cathedrals ;  woven  them  into  im- 
mortal books,  and  lived  them  in  schemes  for 
the  regeneration  of  the  world.  In  life,  as 


en.  vi.  ANNE    PAGE  95 

Anne  had  come  to  know  it  through  her 
reading,  there  had  been,  and  still  were,  fierce 
passions  of  love  and  hate,  swaying  men  and 
women  as  the  trees  of  a  forest  are  swayed  by 
a  rushing  wind.  Passions  which  had  given 
birth  to  the  great  stories  of  the  world — the 
stories  of  Helen  of  Troy,  of  Abelard  and 
Heloise,  of  Launcelot  and  Guinevere,  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  In  life,  running  like  a 
dark  mysterious  stream,  among  the  simpler 
sensations,  the  more  elemental  passions  of 
humanity,  there  had  been  strange  terrors, 
haunting  curiosities,  insatiable  longings  for  the 
unattainable,  the  unknowable,  the  unrealized — 
the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 

In  life  too,  there  had  always  existed  the 
fresh  unspoiled  delight  in  Nature's  loveliness ; 
in  the  charming  natural  embroidery  of  earth's 
garment.  Delight  in  the  simple  things  out 
of  which,  as  her  favourite  Herrick  told  her, 
he  rejoiced  to  make  his  songs. 

"  I sing  of 'Books ;  of  Blossoms,  Birds,  and  Bowers ; 
Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July  flowers " 

In  poetry,  as  in  a  mirror,  Anne  found  the 
result  of  all  her  reading  reflected  and  trans- 
figured. 

It  summed  up  for  her  all  that  she  had 
learnt  from  other  books,  of  love  and  life,  and 
hope  of  immortality. 


96  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  vi. 

She  began  with  Chaucer,  and  found  him 
sweet  and  fresh  and  hardy  as  the  hawthorn 
blossom  with  which  he  powders  his  English 
meadows.  She  found  in  him  all  the  simple 
and  tender  emotions  which  have  existed  in 
the  heart  of  man  since  he  became  human. 
The  love  of  Custance  for  her  child  delighted 
her. 

"Pees  litel  sone,  I  wol  do  thee  no  harm  : 
With  that  hire  couverchief  of  hire  hed  she  braid, 
And  over  his  litel  eyen  she  it  laid. 

O  litel  child,  alas  !  what  is  thy  gilt 

That  never  wroughtest  sinne  as  yet  parde  ?  " 

The  gentle,  natural  words,  written  five 
hundred  years  ago,  went  to  her  heart.  She 
loved  the  gaiety,  the  bustle,  the  gossip,  the 
sense  of  colour  and  vitality  in  that  long  pro- 
cession which  wound  from  the  Tabard  Inn, 
along  the  white  roads  full  of  sunshine,  which 
led  to  Canterbury. 

She  read  the  ballads  which  like  vivid 
lightning  flashes  illumine  the  darkness  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  show  the  mainsprings  of 
human  action  to  be  ever  the  old  mainsprings 
of  love  and  hate. 

She  came  to  the  Elizabethan  poets — to 
the  period  when  England  had  become  "  a 
nest  of  singing  birds."  She  found  Spenser's 
glorious  love-song,  and  the  wonderful  cry  in 


CH.  vi.  ANNE    PAGE  97 

which  Marlowe's  Faust  links  one  great  love- 
story  to  another. 

"  Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ? 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss " 

She  learnt  to  know  so  well  that  they 
haunted  her  thoughts  like  music,  the  sonnets 
of  Shakespeare,  and  the  lyrics  of  all  the 
"singing  birds,"  Lodge  and  Peele  and  Nash, 
Ben  Jonson  and  Campion,  who,  a  musician 
in  every  sense  of  the  word,  framed  his  "  Ayres 
for  one  voyce  with  the  Lute  or  Violl,"  so 
as  "to  couple  words  and  notes  lovingly 
together."  She  came  to  Milton,  and  the 
lighter  poets  of  the  Restoration,  of  whom 
her  love  was  given  chiefly  to  Herrick.  The 
poets  of  comparatively  modern  times  followed, 
and  led  her  in  due  time  to  Keats  and 
Shelley,  who  revealed  to  her  the  modern 
note  of  unrest,  and  the  troubling  effect  on 
the  human  spirit,  of  beauty,  whether  revealed 
as  to  Keats  in  the  material  world,  or  as 
to  Shelley  in  the  intangible  world  of  ideas. 
With  these  two  poets,  the  library,  formed  in 
her  old  friend's  youth,  paused  abruptly  in  its 
representations  of  English  poetry. 

Anne  found  no  volume  of  Browning,  nor 
of  Tennyson,  on  the  shelves. 

In  her  friend's  day  they  were  young, 

H 


98  ANNE   PAGE  en.  vi. 

untried  men,  as  in  a  still  greater  degree,  were 
Swinburne,  Morris,  and  Meredith. 

But  without  them,  Anne,  like  Keats,  had 
travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold,  and  the  new 
planet  that  swam  into  her  ken  was  the  very 
world  in  which  for  thirty  years  she  had  lived 
blind  and  a  prisoner,  ignorant  of  its  beauty, 
deaf  to  its  calling  voices. 

It  was  of  her  five  years  of  solitary  reading 
that  Anne  was  thinking  as  she  sat  in  the 
September  sunshine  with  Fran9ois's  letter  open 
on  her  lap. 

She  had  read,  she  had  thought.  Imagina- 
tively, she  had  entered  into  the  life  of  the 
great  world  outside  her  country  home. 

But  of  actual  individual  experience  of  one 
personal  heart-beat,  known  to  thousands  of 
men  and  women  past  and  present,  she  was  as 
ignorant  at  thirty-five  as  she  had  been  all 
through  her  quiet  existence. 

Like  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  she  sat  weaving 
her  tapestry  of  dreams  before  a  magic  mirror 
in  which  the  pageant  of  the  world  was  nothing 
but  a  reflection ;  a  shadow-dance  of  figures, 
loving,  hating,  struggling  ;  pursuing  brave 
adventures,  triumphing  or  defeated,  hopeful 
or  despairing. 

Miss  Page  folded  her  letter,  and  replaced 
it  slowly  in  its  envelope. 


CH.  vi.  ANNE   PAGE  99 

It  was  the  day  for  her  class  of  village 
children,  whom  she  taught  to  sew,  and  to 
whom,  while  they  wrestled  with  long  seams, 
she  read  fairy  tales. 

There  was  tea  in  the  garden  afterwards, 
and  she  had  forgotten  to  tell  Burks  to  put 
out  the  strawberry  jam. 

She  rose,  and  went  into  the  house  to 
repair  the  omission. 


VII 

"WE  shall  have  a  very  dull  winter,"  com- 
plained Mrs.  Carfax,  "  with  so  many  of  you 
away.  Sylvia  and  Mrs.  Dakin  have  gone 
already,  and  now  you  are  going  to  desert  us. 
We  shall  feel  quite  lost." 

It  was  a  damp  afternoon  in  mid- October, 
and  the  wood-fire  in  Miss  Page's  drawing- 
room  glowed  cheerfully. 

The  tea-table  was  drawn  up  near  its  blaze, 
and  Mrs.  Carfax  leant  back  comfortably  in  the 
corner  of  the  sofa,  sipping  her  tea  and  eating 
hot  cakes  appreciatively. 

"  So  you're  going  to  Rome  ?  "  she  continued. 
"We  hoped  as  you  didn't  go  away  last  year 
you  had  become  reconciled  to  an  English 
winter." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  go,"  confessed  Anne. 
"  I  was  very  happy  here  last  year.  But  some- 
how this  autumn  I  have  begun  to  long  for 
more  sunshine.  I  know  we've  had  a  lovely 
summer,  and  I  ought  to  be  content,  but  the 
rain  of  the  last  fortnight  has  decided  me." 

100 


CH.  vii.  ANNE    PAGE  101 

She  glanced  with  a  little  shiver  towards  the 
drenched  garden.  The  rain  had  been  too 
persistent  to  make  much  sweeping  of  leaves 
practicable,  and  the  grass  was  strewn  with 
them,  yellow,  battered  and  rotting. 

"  Tell  me  about  Sylvia ! "  she  inquired. 
"  I  heard  from  her  the  other  day,  but  I  dare  say 
you  have  later  news.  She  seems  very  happy." 

"  Oh,  she  writes  in  excellent  spirits,  as  of 
course  she  would,  now  she's  got  her  own 
way." 

Mrs.  Carfax's  expression  was  one  of  rather 
irritable  displeasure,  and  Anne's  inward  re- 
flections turned  on  that  deplorable  yet  possibly 
comprehensible  antagonism  which  so  frequently 
exists  between  children  and  parents ;  the  tie  of 
blood  so  binding,  yet  so  provocative  of  mutual 
adverse  criticism,  involuntary  irritation  and 
impatience. 

"  Do  you  like  the  boarding-house  ? "  she 
asked. 

"Oh  yes.  Very  nice.  Her  father  and  I 
took  her  there  last  week,  you  know.  I  couldn't 
be  easy  till  I'd  seen  what  sort  of  place  she  was 
in.  And  men  are  no  good  at  that  sort  of 
thing."  She  helped  herself  to  another  tea- 
cake. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  repeated,  "  it's  a  very  com- 
fortable house;  on  the  Embankment,  I  think 


102  ANNE   PAGE  en.  vn. 

you  call  it.  At  any  rate,  it's  quite  close  to  the 
school  where  she  takes  her  lessons.  Sylvia 
shares  a  sitting-room  with  Susie  Villiers,  one 
of  her  school-fellows  who  is  studying  at  the 
Slade,  is  it  ?  I  always  forget  the  names  of 
these  places.  It's  a  house  built  on  purpose  for 
students,  I  understand.  Most  comfortable. 
Hot  and  cold  water  on  every  floor,  and  bath- 
rooms, and  a  beautiful  dining-room.  To  my 
mind  it's  all  too  luxurious.  Everything  is  done 
nowadays,  it  seems  to  me,  to  tempt  young 
people  from  their  homes." 

Mrs.  Carfax  gave  an  exasperated  sigh. 

"  But  Sylvia  has  a  great  gift,  dear  Mrs. 
Carfax,"  pleaded  Anne.  "  It  isn't  as  though 
she  leaves  home  to  do  nothing." 

"  That's  what  her  father  says  now.  He 
never  used  to.  He  always  upheld  me  in  main- 
taining that  the  place  of  the  eldest  daughter  is 
at  home.  I  don't  know  what  you  could  have 
said  to  change  him  so,  Miss  Page,  but  ever 
since  he  talked  to  you  about  Sylvia,  his  cry  is 
that  it's  sinful  not  to  use  the  gifts  with  which 
God  has  endowed  us.  Men  are  so  inconsistent ; 
and  if  they're  clergymen  they  always  seem  able 
to  quote  some  text  to  annoy  you.  I  don't  mean 
to  be  profane,  but  sometimes  I  have  found  the 
Bible  most  trying." 

Mrs.  Carfax  sighed  again. 


CH.  vii.  ANNE    PAGE  103 

"  She  has  a  lovely  voice.  You  will  be 
proud  of  her  one  day,"  declared  Miss  Page, 
with  her  disarming  smile. 

"  But  what  is  she  going  to  do  with  it  ?  I 
would  never  consent  to  a  child  of  mine  singing 
in  public,  with  her  name  in  newspapers,  and 
on  placards  and  all  that !  It  would  break  my 
heart." 

"  Still  you  needn't  think  of  the  future  yet, 
need  you  ?  She  has  years  of  training  before 
her." 

"  But  if  she's  not  going  to  do  anything 
with  it,  what  a  waste  of  money  ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Carfax,  tragically.  "  I  think  it's  much 
better  for  girls  not  to  have  gifts,"  she  added. 

Miss  Page  was  rather  disposed  to  consider 
that  her  guest  had  uttered  a  great  truth. 

Her  reply  however,  was  non-committal. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said.  "  But  if  they  do 
possess  them  don't  you  agree  with  Mr.  Carfax 
that  it's  right  to  cultivate  them  ?  A  gift  of 
any  sort  is  such  a  worrying  thing,"  she  added 
persuasively.  "  And  if  it's  allowed  to  rust,  it 
chiefly  worries  its  possessor.  Now  that  she's 
doing  what  she  was  born  to  do,  Sylvia  will 
be  contented.  I  dorit  think  it's  just  because 
she's  getting  her  own  way  that  she's  happy. 
It's  deeper  than  that.  She's  satisfied  because 
she's  fulfilling  a  need  of  her  nature  for  which 


104  ANNE    PAGE  en.  vn. 

she's  no  more  responsible  than  she  is  for  the 
colour  of  her  very  pretty  eyes. " 

Anne's  voice  was  so  gentle,  her  smile 
so  irresistible,  that  Mrs.  Carfax  was  visibly 
softened. 

"  At  any  rate  I'm  glad  it's  not  art  she's 
got  a  taste  for,"  she  conceded. 

To  Mrs.  Carfax,  painting1,  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  the  other  activities  of  the  Muses,  was 
art,  as  Miss  Page  understood. 

"You  wouldn't  like  her  to  paint?" 

"  Oh  landscapes  and  flowers,  and  that  sort 
of  thing  is  all  right.  A  very  nice  amusement. 
I've  got  lots  of  water-colour  sketches  I  did 
as  a  girl,  and  hand-painted  screens,  and  sofa 
cushions  too.  But  nowadays  art  is  such  a 
shocking  thing,  isn't  it  ?  I  hear  that  Susie 
Villiers  draws  from  the  nude,  as  they  call  it. 
To  me,  it's  a  perfectly  disgusting  idea.  And 
they  draw  men,  as  well  as  women.  Imagine 
a  young  girl  having  the  boldness  to  draw  a 
man  without  his  clothes  !  " 

"  Do  have  some  of  this  toast  before  it  gets 
cold,"  urged  Anne.  "  Oh !  while  I  think  of 
it  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  to  make  that 
delicious  shortbread  I  tasted  the  last  time  I 
came  to  you." 

Mrs.  Carfax,  adroitly  switched  off  the  topic 
of  art  as  she  understood  it,  was  on  firm  ground 


CH.  vii.  ANNE    PAGE  105 

now  that  culinary  operations  held  the  con- 
versational field. 

She  gave  minute  directions  to  which  her 
friend  listened  with  flattering  attention. 

"  I  must  write  that  down  before  I  forget 
it,"  said  Anne,  opening  a  bureau  to  take  from 
it  her  book  of  recipes. 

"  How  beautifully  orderly  you  are  ! "  ex- 
claimed her  guest,  glancing  with  admiration 
at  the  packets  of  papers  tied  with  ribbon,  the 
piles  of  little  books  which  filled  the  pigeon- 
holes. "  What  a  pity  you  never  married. 
You  would  have  made  such  a  good  wife.  The 
wives  of  to-day  are  shocking  housekeepers. 
Look  at  that  flighty  little  Mrs.  Dakin  !  The 
doctor,  poor  man,  must  suffer  a  good  deal. 
I  doubt  whether  he  ever  gets  a  decent  meal. 
Don't  you  think  it's  very  extraordinary  of  him 
to  let  her  go  away  for  such  a  long  visit  as  she 
proposes  to  make  ?  I  think  that  kind  of  thing 
is  a  mistake,  you  know." 

Launched  upon  the  stream  of  gossip  for 
which  she  possessed  a  considerable  weakness, 
Mrs.  Carfax  shook  her  head  portentously. 

"  He  thinks  it  will  be  good  for  her  health. 
She's  not  very  strong,  is  she  ?  And  this  place 
doesn't  suit  her  in  the  winter." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  think  there's  much  the  matter 
with  her  health,"  answered  Mrs.  Carfax  with 


106  ANNE   PAGE  en.  vn. 

a  touch  of  scorn.  "  She  hasn't  anything  else 
to  think  of.  She  hasn't  enough  to  do,  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  her.  One  or  two 
children  would  soon  make  her  forget  her 
ailments.  Poor  Dr.  Dakin !  I  dorit  think 
she's  very  nice  to  him,  do  you  ?  I  often 
pity  him." 

"  But  I'm  quite  sure  they're  devoted  to  one 
another,"  began  Miss  Page,  hailing  with  relief 
the  entrance  of  the  Vicar,  who  had  called  to 
fetch  his  wife,  and  to  bid  their  hostess  farewell. 

"Well,  dear  lady!"  he  exclaimed  in  his 
hearty  voice.  "So  you're  off  to  the  land  of 
perpetual  sunshine  to-morrow.  Lucky  woman  ! 
And  Rome  too,  a  city  which  I  have  always 
had  a  great  desire  to  visit.  Most  interesting. 
Most  interesting.  But  you  leave  us  desolate." 

"  How  kind  of  you  to  come  and  say  good- 
bye !  My  farewells  this  week  have  made  me 
quite  sad,"  declared  Anne.  "  I  hate  last  days." 

"We  shall  all  miss  you  terribly.  You  leave 
a  heart-broken  community  behind  you,"  said 
the  Vicar.  "  Poor  Dakin  is  already  bemoaning 
his  fate,  bereft  of  his  wife  and  of  you.  It's  a 
good  thing  Sylvia  isn't  here,  or  we  should 
have  had  nothing  but  lamentations  till  the 
spring." 

"  You  all  spoil  me,"  Anne  said  in  a  moved 
voice.  "  We  have  been  talking  about  Sylvia," 


en.  vii.  ANNE   PAGE  107 

she  went  on  rather  hurriedly.  "  I'm  so  glad 
she's  happy." 

"  Best  thing  for  her.  Quite  the  right 
thing ! "  declared  the  Vicar  emphatically.  "  I'm 
always  telling  my  wife  that  gifts  are  ours  as  a 
sacred  trust.  Moreover,  when  the  girl  comes 
back  for  the  holidays  and  so  on,  she  will 
appreciate  her  home,  and  we  shall  all  get  on 
much  better  in  consequence.  Girls  as  well 
as  boys  must  find  their  own  paths,  and  make 
their  own  lives.  To  thwart  them  only  leads 
to  unnecessary  friction,  and  is  after  all  unjust. 
Every  girl  should  have  her  chance." 

If  Miss  Page  smiled  in  secret  to  find  the 
ideas  she  had  implanted  in  the  Vicar's  mind 
so  well  assimilated  that  they  re-appeared  in 
the  form  of  original  conviction,  no  trace  of 
her  amusement  was  visible. 

"  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Carfax  will  find  that  you're 
right,"  was  her  remark,  as  she  smiled  at  the 
lady  in  question. 

Mrs.  Carfax  kissed  her  affectionately. 
"  Good-bye.  I'm  sure  we're  preventing  you 
from  looking  after  your  packing,"  she  said. 

"  Good-bye,"  echoed  her  husband,  enclosing 
Anne's  frail  hand  in  his  vigorous  clasp.  "  Don't 
let  Sylvia  bother  you  with  too  many  letters. 
I  am  convinced  that  I've  done  the  right  thing 
by  the  child  in  sticking  to  my  own  ideas." 


io8  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  vn. 

He  smiled  the  manly  smile  of  self-confidence 
and  wisdom  denied  to  women,  and  Miss  Page, 
following  her  visitors  to  the  hall-door,  waved 
to  them  as  they  went  down  the  drive  together. 

The  amusement  that  she  need  no  longer 
repress,  was  in  her  eyes,  as  she  went  upstairs 
to  her  room ;  the  gentle  tolerant  amusement 
of  a  woman  old  enough  to  look  at  life  with 
kindly  sympathy  for  its  absurdities,  and  that 
charity  without  which  the  spectacle  has  a 
tendency  to  move  to  a  mirth  as  bitter  and 
more  cruel  than  anger. 

She  found  Burks  on  her  knees  before  a 
trunk,  still  engaged  in  packing. 

"That  will  do,  Burks.  I'll  finish  it  my- 
self," she  said.  "  You  go  down  and  get  your 


tea." 


After  the  maid  had  left,  Anne  opened  the 
door  which  led  from  her  bedroom  into  her 
sitting-room,  and  examined  the  shelves  with 
the  idea  of  choosing  one  or  two  favourite  books 
to  take  with  her  on  her  journey. 

The  books  in  this  room  were  chiefly  modern, 
supplementing  the  library  downstairs. 

She  chose  one  or  two  French  novels,  and  a 
little  volume  of  Herrick,  which  had  found  its 
way  to  the  shelves  mostly  devoted  to  French 
literature.  Then  she  returned  to  the  bedroom, 


CH.  viz.  ANNE   PAGE  109 

which  was  already  bright  with  lamp  and  fire- 
light. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  to  the 
bureau,  from  which  several  months  before  she 
had  taken  her  old  journal. 

This  time  she  sought  for,  and  found  another 
book.  After  adjusting  the  spring,  and  locking 
the  writing  part  of  the  piece  of  furniture,  she 
thrust  this  volume,  without  looking  at  it,  deep 
into  her  nearly  filled  trunk. 


VIII 

ANNE  always  returned  with  pleasure  to  Rome, 
a  city  which  she  knew  well,  and  to  which  she 
was  bound  by  many  memories.  She  settled 
down  happily  with  her  maid  in  the  little  hotel 
in  the  heart  of  the  city,  at  which  she  frequently 
stayed. 

It  had  been  chosen  chiefly  on  account  of 
the  garden  which  her  rooms  overlooked — one 
of  those  charming  Roman  gardens,  full  of 
orange-trees  in  tubs,  of  oleanders,  and  of 
clambering  vines. 

A  fountain  splashed  in  the  midst,  and  the 
sound  of  its  falling  water  was  music  in  her 
ears. 

The  deep  blue  sky,  the  dazzling  sunshine 
never  ceased  to  fill  her  with  a  sense  of  buoy- 
ancy and  youth,  and  all  her  wanderings  to 
distant  churches,  to  ruined  temples ;  amongst 
pictures,  and  statues,  were  a  delight. 

One  morning,  when  she  had  tired  herself 
by  a  long  ramble  through  the  halls  and  cor- 
ridors of  the  Vatican,  she  returned  with  the 

no 


CH.  vm.  ANNE    PAGE  in 

determination  to  do  nothing  for  the  rest  of  the 
day,  but  read  and  be  lazy. 

She  went  to  her  room  after  lunch,  her  mind 
filled  with  the  beauty  of  the  Borgia  rooms  in 
which  she  had  just  lingered. 

The  ribbed  ceilings,  rich  with  the  gorgeous 
colour  of  the  emblems  and  coats-of-arms  of 
the  princely  house,  the  marble  pavements,  the 
lofty  windows,  formed  the  empty  frame  into 
which  her  fancy  painted  pictures  of  the  scenes 
those  rooms  had  beheld.  She  heard  the  rustle 
of  dresses  stiff  with  gold  and  gems  ;  she  caught 
the  backward  glance  of  many  a  face ;  the  face 
of  Isabella  d'Este,  of  Beatrice,  of  Lucrezia, 
framed  in  the  golden  hair  she  washed  so  fre- 
quently, and  tended  with  such  care. 

"  Whafs  become  of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms  f  " 

Browning's  words  had  come  to  Anne's 
mind  as  she  stood  for  a  moment  alone  in  one 
of  the  ante-chambers,  and  glanced  about  her 
as  though  expecting  it  to  be  full  of  ghosts. 

She  wondered  how  many  of  these  golden- 
haired  women  had  loved  the  painted  walls 
upon  which  her  eyes  now  rested.  Those 
wonderful  frescoes  of  Pinturicchio  with  their 
background  of  valley  and  mountain,  and  their 
flower-starred  meadows ;  their  animals  and 


ii2  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  vm. 

birds,  their  fantastic  towers,  their  dainty 
figures,  fanciful  and  charming  as  a  fairy  tale. 

She  hoped  they  had  loved  them,  and  praised 
the  painter  with  their  sweetest  smiles. 

Outside  in  the  garden,  the  fountain  splashed 
in  the  sunshine,  and  suddenly  its  melody  was 
the  melody  of  her  own  fountain  in  her  own 
English  garden  at  home. 

She  thought  of  it  lovingly,  and  planned  a 
new  hedge  of  briar-roses  in  the  sunny  corner 
where  the  dovecote  stood. 

Gradually  the  memory  of  the  garden  filled 
her  mind,  and  blotted  out  the  stately  visions  of 
palaces  and  princes. 

It  grew  peopled  with  well-known  figures, 
with  men  who  twenty  years  ago  had  walked 
with  her  across  its  green  lawn,  had  sat  with 
her  under  its  trees,  laughing,  talking,  reading, 
sometimes,  but  rarely  silent. 

Presently  she  rose,  and  took  from  a  locked 
drawer  the  book  she  had  brought  from  home, 
and  till  this  moment,  forgotten. 

Sitting  in  the  sunshine,  with  the  splash  of  the 
fountain  sounding  in  her  ears,  Anne  opened  it. 

"March  3.  Hugh  came  home  last  Novem- 
ber to  marry  Alice,"  were  the  first  words  that 
met  her  eyes. 

"  They  have  taken  a  little  furnished  cottage 


CH.  vm.  ANNE   PAGE  113 

by  the  sea,  at  St.  Margaret's  Bay  near  Dover, 
and  they  want  me  to  stay  with  them  before 
they  sail  for  New  Zealand.  Mrs.  Burbage  says 
of  course  I  must  go,  and  I  start  to-morrow 
t6  be  with  them  for  a  fortnight.  I  long  to 
see  Hugh  again,  but  I'm  shy  at  the  thought 
of  meeting  his  wife.  I  have  never  seen  her." 

Except  for  the  mention  of  her  return  to 
Fairholme  Court,  there  was  nothing  written  in 
the  book  from  that  date,  till  May  of  the  same 
year,  and  the  painful  colour  crept  into  Anne's 
face  as  she  noticed  this. 

There  was  no  need  for  written  record. 
Clearly,  as  though  she  had  recently  lived 
through  the  experience,  she  remembered  that 
fortnight's  visit. 

She  remembered  getting  out  of  the  train  at 
the  wayside  station,  the  nearest  station  touched 
by  the  railroad,  for  St.  Margaret's  Bay.  Her 
heart  was  beating  rather  fast.  It  was  eighteen 
years  since  she  had  seen  Hugh.  Should  she 
recognize  him  ?  He  would  not  know  her. 
When  he  last  came  home  she  was  a  girl  of 
seventeen.  The  thought  of  her  present  age 
struck  her  with  a  shock  of  dismay. 

There  were  only  two  people  on  the  plat- 
form. A  big  burly  man,  tall  and  bearded,  and 
beside  him  a  girl  in  a  white  serge  dress. 

l 


ii4  ANNE   PAGE  en.  vm. 

Hugh  and  his  wife ! 

"  I  am  Anne,"  she  stammered,  going  up  to 
them. 

Hugh  put  his  arms  round  her  with  his  old 
impulsive  roughness,  and  then  held  her  away 
from  him. 

"Why,  you've  grown,  Anne!"  he  cried 
gaily.  "  You  were  such  a  little  thing !  So 
slight,  I  mean.  Darling,  this  is  Anne.  Isn't 
she  a  demned  fine  woman  ?  " 

His  old  laugh  rang  out  boyishly,  as  Anne 
turned  shyly  to  his  wife. 

She  was  very  small,  very  daintily  made, 
very  prettily  dressed.  Her  face,  despite  her 
twenty-five  years,  was  still  babyish  with  its 
large  blue  eyes  and  rings  of  soft  hair  round  a 
childish  forehead.  She  took  her  sister-in-law's 
hand  and  smiled,  but  even  then,  Anne  did 
not  miss  the  quick  glance  that  scrutinized  her 
quizzically  from  head  to  foot. 

From  that  moment,  she  knew  that  for  Alice 
she  was  merely  a  dowdily  dressed  woman  ;  an 
old  maid,  some  one  to  be  treated  with  patron- 
izing kindliness. 

They  drove  from  the  station  to  the 
cottage,  which  was  almost  upon  the  sea- 
shore. 

M  Hugh  loves  the  sea.  He  can't  be  happy 
away  from  it,  can  you,  darling  ?  "  Alice  asked, 


CH.  vm.  ANNE   PAGE  115 

slipping   her   hand   into   his,  as   they  entered 
the  little  parlour  where  tea  was  spread. 

"  Now  Anne,  tell  us  all  about  it ! "  ex- 
claimed Hugh  as  they  sat  down.  "  Bless  my 
soul,  it's  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  since  I 
saw  you.  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this 
time?" 

A  sudden  paralyzing  blankness  fell  upon 
Anne's  mind. 

What  had  she  been  doing  ?  For  thirteen 
years  after  her  brother's  last  departure,  she 
had  lived  in  the  little  house  in  Tufton  Street, 
managing  the  house  work,  anxiously  counting 
her  weekly  allowance  for  fear  that  with  all  her 
pains,  both  ends  could  not  be  made  to  meet. 
She  had  nursed  a  hopeless  invalid,  and  tried  to 
bear  his  exacting  temper  with  patience.  For 
the  last  five  of  the  eighteen  years  she  had  read 
books,  and  worked  in  the  garden.  There  was 
nothing  to  tell  them. 

Instinctively  she  felt  that  to  these  people 
who  belonged  to  practical  life,  who  lived  and 
loved,  who  were  in  the  mainstream  of  human 
activity,  her  world  of  books  meant  nothing. 

The  colour  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  and  left 
them  white. 

"  I— 'I  have  done  nothing  at  all,"  she 
stammered.  "You  know  I  have  been  living 
with  Mrs.  Burbage  for  five  years?  She's 


ii6  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  vm. 

very  kind.  But  she's  almost  an  invalid, 
so  we're — we're  very  quiet.  Tell  me  about 
yourself,  Hugh.  Things  are  always  happening 
to  you." 

"Well,  this  has  happened  to  me,"  he 
returned  with  a  laugh,  slipping  his  arm  round 
his  wife's  shoulder.  "  The  best  thing  that 
ever  happened  in  my  life." 

Alice  drew  close  to  him  with  a  little 
nestling  movement,  and  Anne  suddenly  felt 
a  sickening  pain  at  her  heart. 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,  Hugh !  Any  one 
would  think  we  were  lovers,"  she  declared, 
turning  to  her  sister-in-law.  "  And  we've 
been  married  ages.  Nearly  four  months." 

"  Well,  aren't  we  lovers  ? "  demanded 
Hugh,  shaking  her.  "  Answer  me  at  once. 
Aren't  we  ?  " 

She  got  up  laughing,  and  kissed  the  top 
of  his  head. 

"  Of  course  we  are.  But  don't  be  silly  ! " 
she  commanded.  She  blushed,  but  her  eyes 
were  bright  with  happiness. 

"  Oh  never  mind  Anne  ! "  said  Hugh. 
"  She's  one  of  the  family.  She  doesn't  count." 

The  light,  kindly  meant  words  caused 
Anne  another  strange  pang.  She  didn't 
count.  Of  course  she  didn't  count.  Why 
should  she  ? 


CH.  vm.  ANNE    PAGE  117 

"  How  lovely  the  sea  is ! "  she  exclaimed 
hastily.  "  I  can't  look  at  it  enough.  You 
know  I've  only  seen  it  once  before." 

"Nonsense!  How's  that?"  asked  Hugh, 
with  the  easy  forgetfulness  of  a  man  who  does 
not  realize  the  straitened  life  in  which  he 
never  had  a  part. 

"  I  never  went  away,"  said  Anne,  simply. 
"  There  was  no  money.  Once  when  I  was 
a  child,  Miss  Atkins  took  me  for  a  day  to 
Broadstairs.  You  remember  Miss  Atkins  ? " 

"  Old  Thomas  ?  She  was  Anne's  gover- 
ness, and  exactly  like  a  tortoise-shell  cat,"  he 
explained  turning  to  his  wife.  "Yes,  what's 
become  of  her  ?  " 

"  Dead,"  said  Anne.     "  She  died  ten  years 

ago." 

"Poor  old  thing!"  returned  Hugh  per- 
functorily. "  Darling,  won't  you  show  Anne 
her  room,  and  then  we  can  go  for  a  walk 
before  supper.  Isn't  it  warm  here ! "  he 
exclaimed,  leaning  from  the  open  window. 
"  It's  so  sheltered  you  see  with  the  cliffs 
at  the  back.  Make  haste,  Anne.  We'll  take 
you  on  to  the  downs,  and  show  you  the  sea 
to  your  heart's  content." 

At  supper  the  talk  was  all  about  Hugh. 
His  past  adventures,  his  future  prospects.  He 
had  worked  hard,  and  was  now  partner  of  the 


ii8  ANNE   PAGE  en.  vm. 

promising  sheep  farm  in  New  Zealand,  to 
which  next  month  he  proposed  to  return  with 
his  wife. 

"  I  tell  Alice  it  won't  be  a  very  gay  exist- 
ence for  her.  She  doesn't  look  much  like  a 
farmer's  wife,  does  she  ?  "  He  threw  her  an 
admiring  glance.  "  But  she  declares  she  won't 
mind." 

"  You'll  be  there,"  was  Alice's  only  com- 
ment. 

"  Oh  yes  !  And  there  are  neighbours  too. 
Very  jolly  people.  And  Bob  Holmes,  that's 
my  partner,  you  know,  Anne,  is  an  awfully 
decent  fellow.  You'll  like  his  wife,  Alice. 
She's  such  a  cheery  little  woman.  Oh !  it's 
not  so  bad.  And  the  climate's  splendid. 
Lord !  how  one  misses  the  sun  in  this  damp 
misty  old  country ! " 

"  It  will  be  lovely.  I'm  longing  to  go," 
Alice  exclaimed. 

"  You  see  she's  only  got  an  uncle  and 
aunt  to  leave,"  explained  Hugh,  turning  to  his 
sister.  "She's  a  very  lonely  little  person." 

"  Not  now,"  said  Alice,  her  voice  full  of 
content. 

Before  she  had  been  with  them  two  days, 
Anne  had  found  herself  filled  with  a  passionate 
longing  to  return  to  her  quiet  home.  To  get 


ci-i.  viii.  ANNE   PAGE  119 

back  to  the  shelter  in  which  she  was  not 
reminded  twenty  times  an  hour  that  she 
"  didn't  count." 

She  was  amazed  at  the  violence  of  her 
own  emotions. 

Every  glance  exchanged  by  the  married 
lovers,  every  word  of  love,  every  caress, 
stabbed  her  afresh. 

She  had  never  before  known  what  it  was 
to  feel  acutely,  and  the  suffering  bewildered 
her.  She  was  afraid  of  it.  She  wanted 
desperately  to  escape  from  herself,  this  new 
self  which  seemed  all  torn  and  bleeding. 

There  was  a  hunted  look  in  her  eyes  like 
that  of  a  starving  and  desperate  animal.  She 
shuddered  at  them  sometimes  when  they  met 
her  suddenly  in  the  glass.  One  evening, 
unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  their  endearments, 
she  had  gone  early  to  her  room,  pleading 
a  headache.  She  groped  her  way  to  the 
window,  in  the  dark,  and  kneeling  down 
beside  it,  looked  out  upon  the  sea. 

Every  few  minutes,  a  flash  from  the  light- 
house on  the  cliffs  momentarily  illumined  the 
still  water.  Far  out,  lights  moved  on  the  prow 
of  passing  ships.  She  could  hear  the  wash  and 
murmur  of  the  waves,  as  they  broke  lazily  on 
the  pebbly  shore. 

For  a  long  time  she  knelt  there  immovable, 


120  ANNE   PAGE  en.  vnr. 

the  sound  of  the  sea  lulling  her  into  a  sort  of 
painless  trance,  till  the  hum  of  voices  below 
gradually  filtered  to  her  senses.  The  evening 
was  so  warm  that  Hugh  and  his  wife  were 
sitting  in  the  garden.  At  first,  numbed  and 
half  conscious  in  mind,  she  scarcely  heeded  the 
murmur  of  talk,  but  finally  a  sentence  in  a 
man's  voice  reached  her  consciousness. 

"  Nonsense,  darling !  She's  not  at  all  bad 
looking.  Well  dressed,  she'd  be  a  fine  figure 
of  a  woman." 

"  Why  is  she  so  dowdy  then  ?  " 

"  She  lives  in  the  country,  you  see.  I 
suppose  there's  no  one  to  dress  for.  And 
after  all  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

There  was  a  little  laugh.  "  No.  She's  too 
old  now.  She'll  never  marry." 

Again  there  was  an  incoherent  murmur. 
"Yes  I  know,  darling,  it's  boring  for  you. 
But  she's  had  a  dreary  life,  poor  girl.  I  want 
you  to  be  nice  to  her." 

"  I  am  nice,"  the  answer  came  in  a  hurt 
voice,  and^  was  followed  immediately  by  a 
rustle. 

"  I  know  you  are.  You're  a  darling. 
You're  the  sweetest  thing  on  this  earth  !  " 

There  was  a  sound  of  a  kiss,  and  Anne 
drew  back  from  the  window  with  a  quick 
movement. 


CH.  viii.  ANNE   PAGE  121 

"  Hush  !  "  The  exclamation  came  swiftly 
from  Hugh. 

"  Oh  !  it's  all  right.  Her  light's  out.  She's 
asleep." 

Anne  closed  the  window  noiselessly  to  shut 
out  the  voices  to  which  she  had  listened  with- 
out her  will,  scarcely  conscious  of  how  they 
had  reached  her.  She  threw  herself  on  her 
bed  in  the  dark.  After  all,  as  Hugh  said,  it 
didn't  matter.  But  she  cried  all  night  as  though 
it  did. 

In  the  journal  which  Miss  Page  held  open 
on  her  knee,  she  saw  the  date  of  her  return 
recorded. 

"  Came  back  to  Fairholme   Court,  March 


She  remembered  her  old  friend's  greeting, 
as  she  went  to  find  her  in  the  morning-room, 
where  she  was  lying  on  the  sofa. 

"  Why,  Anne  !  Sea  air  doesn't  suit  you. 
You've  got  thin,  my  dear.  You  look  quite 
ill.  You  mustn't  go  away  again." 

"  No,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  will  never  go 
away  again." 

She  remembered  going  into  the  library 
before  she  took  off  her  walking  things,  looking 
round  at  the  walls  lined  with  books,  and  won- 
dering why  they  had  ever  meant  anything  to 
her  at  all. 


122  AJNINli    i'AUli  Cil.  VIII. 

"  Books  are  no  good,"  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  went  upstairs. 

"  This  also  is  vanity,"  was  what  the  words 
implied. 

Miss  Page  looked  out  with  a  sort  of  sur- 
prise upon  the  garden  steeped  in  sunshine. 
The  fountain  was  still  splashing  gaily  into  its 
marble  basin.  In  the  blue  overhead,  two 
pigeons  flashed  and  wheeled.  She  had  been 
living  over  again  the  life  of  many  years  ago, 
with  such  intensity  of  vision  and  of  feeling, 
that  her  present  surroundings  had  the  un- 
reality of  a  dream. 

After  a  few  moments,  she  turned  the  next 
page,  knowing  well  what  she  should  find,  yet 
curious  to  see  the  words  in  her  own  hand- 
writing of  twenty  years  ago. 

"May  I5//Z. — We  have  had  visitors  to-day 
for  the  first  time  almost,  since  I  have  lived 
here.  They  were  all  men,  too,  and  Frenchmen. 
The  parents  of  one  of  them,  Monsieur  Rene 
Dampierre,  knew  Mrs.  Burbage  long  ago,  and 
he  called  and  brought  three  friends  with  him" 

As  Anne  slowly  turned  the  pages,  isolated 
paragraphs  met  her  eye. 

"  /  felt  horribly  shy  at  first,  bnt  only  for 
a  little  while.  They  were  all  so  nice.  I  suppose 


en.  VIIL  ANNE    PAGE  123 

Frenchmen  have  easier  manners  than  English- 
men, though  I  have  had  no  experience  of  either." 

"Monsieur  Fontenelle  is  very  amusing  and 
clever.  I  like  his  face,  though  he  looks  sarcastic, 
and  I'm  sure  he  can  say  bitter  tilings.  Biit  he 
never  says  them  to  me" 

"Mrs.  Burbage  wanted  me  to  describe 
Monsieur  Dampierre  in  whom  she  is  chiefly 
interested,  because  she  knew  him  when  he  was 
a  child.  I  found  it  very  difficult.  When  I  had 
said  that  he  was  tall,  and  broad-shouldered, 
and  very  fair  and  handsome,  it  seemed  as  though 
I  had  said  nothing.  It's  his  smile  and  his 
changing  face  which  make  lip  his  personality — 
a  very  charming  one." 

All  through  that  summer  there  were  short 
entries  concerning  the  little  colony  of  French- 
men that  had  settled  in  the  village. 

Anne  glanced  at  them  with  a  smile.  It 
was  a  very  sweet  smile,  scarcely  sad,  scarcely 
regretful.  It  was  the  smile  of  content  with 
which  a  woman  bends  over  a  bowl  of  dried 
rose-leaves,  and  feels  again  the  warmth  of  the 
sun,  and  sees  the  glitter  and  the  blueness  of 
the  day  when  the  leaves  were  red. 


IX 

IT  was  grey  and  cheerless  in  Paris,  while  Anne 
sat  in  the  sunshine  of  Rome. 

Winter  had  set  in  early,  and  in  Fran9ois's 
studio  the  stove  piled  with  fuel  was  almost 
insufficient  to  warm  the  great  room. 

It  was  as  he  had  suggested,  the  typical 
luxurious  studio  of  a  rich  man. 

A  broad  divan  under  the  window,  was  piled 
with  cushions,  and  supported  by  them  in 
an  attitude  suggestive  of  extreme  comfort, 
Frangois  sat  and  smoked  while  he  talked  to 
an  old  friend. 

The  Vicomte  de  Montme~dy,  rich  now, 
through  his  marriage  with  an  American 
heiress,  was  a  lover  of  the  arts,  a  connoisseur 
and  a  buyer  of  pictures. 

Fontenelle  had  known  him  in  the  days 
when  he  was  only  a  struggling  and  unsuccessful 
painter. 

His  title  and  his  noble  birth,  had  stood 
him  in  better  stead  than  his  talent.  That  this 

was  of  an  inferior  quality  to  his  fine  taste  in 

124 


en.  ix.  ANNE    PAGE  125 

art,  Francois  had  early  recognized,  and  his 
felicitations  on  the  subject  of  his  prudent 
marriage  had  therefore  gained  an  added 
warmth  and  fervour  of  approval. 

The  two  men  had  been  talking  while  the 
daylight  waned,  and  when  Fra^ois,  finding 
his  match-box  empty,  rose  to  refill  it  from  a 
jar  on  a  side  table,  he  paused  to  glance 
with  a  shiver  upon  the  prospect  outside  the 
window. 

The  studio  looked  upon  the  Luxembourg 
Gardens.  The  trees  were  bare  now,  and  their 
branches  showed  black  and  stiff  against  a 
wintry  sky. 

The  paths  underneath  them,  in  summer 
gay  as  the  flower  beds,  with  children  and 
their  nurses,  were  now  lightly  powdered  with 
the  first  fall  of  snow. 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  abroad,"  he  declared, 
lighting  a  cigarette.  "  If  it  were  not  for  these 
confounded  commissions,  I  should  be  in  Rome 
at  this  moment.  There's  no  light  here.  It's 
abominable  !  " 

"  Why  Rome  ? "  asked  the  Vicomte  lazily. 

"  I  love  Rome.  And  then  sweet  Anne 
Page  is  there,  and  she's  always  an  attraction." 

The  other  man  looked  up  quickly.  "  By 
the  way,  it's  her  portrait  the  Luxembourg  has 
bought,  isn't  it  ?  " 


126  ANNE   PAGE  en.  ix. 

"Yes."  He  made  a  quick  movement. 
"  Good  heavens  man,  it's  here,  and  I've  never 
shown  it  to  you.  I  forgot  you  hadn't  seen 
it.  It  goes  next  week.  I  kept  it  to  do  a  little 
work  on  the  background  first." 

"  Quick !  Show  me  before  the  light  goes," 
urged  his  friend.  "  I  was  always  curious 
about  it." 

Frangois  crossed  the  studio  rapidly,  and 
returned  with  a  large  canvas. 

"  The  best  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life," 
he  said  deliberately,  as  he  placed  it  on  an 
easel  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

The  Vicomte  had  risen,  and  in  a  silence 
that  lasted  for  some  time  the  men  stood  before 
the  picture. 

"  Charming  !  "  he  murmured  at  last 
"  Adorable  1  They've  picked  out  the  right 
thing,  mon  ami,  hein  ?  The  smile  !  How  well 
one  remembers  it.  So  sweet,  and  so  shy. 
And  that  flowered  gown.  Admirable !  It 
suggests  one  of  the  Botticelli  Madonnas.  It 
might  be  a  robe  all  sown  with  stars.  And 
the  hair,  that  delicious  soft  hair  that  was  no 
particular  colour — couleur  de  miel,  perhaps." 

"  Mistress  Anne  Page  ?  She  has  brown 
hair,  and  speaks  small,  like  a  woman,"  quoted 
Frangois  softly. 

"What's  that?" 


en.  ix.  ANNE    PAGE  127 

"  It's  Shakespeare.  And  it's  Anne  Page," 
he  answered  smiling. 

"And  the  flowers!"  The  great  sheaf  of 
flowers  she's  carrying.  They're  English,  and 
'  sweet- Anne '  too." 

Fontenelle  looked  amused.  "You  always 
pronounced  it  like  that,  — •  as  one  word ! " 
he  said. 

"  I  used  to  think  it  was  one  word.     Just 
a  Christian  name  ;  a  lovely  name." 
He  joined  in  his  friend's  laugh. 

"  When  did  you  do  this  ? "  he  asked  after 
a  moment. 

"Just  before  she  went." 

"  Was  I  away  then  ?  " 

"You  were  just  married.  You  had  gone 
to  America  with  your  wife." 

"  Yes.  I  stayed  a  year.  But  when  I  came 
back  why  didn't  you  show  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  put  it  away.  She  wouldn't  accept  it, 
and  I  didn't  want  to  see  it,  after  she  had  gone. 
I  never  looked  at  it  again  till  last  spring. 
Paul !  Do  you  know  that  picture's  been 
painted  eighteen  years,  and  I've  never  done 
anything  to  touch  it  since  ?  Encouraging, 
isn't  it?  Something  to  congratulate  one's  self 
upon." 

The  last  words  were  accompanied  by  a 
bitter  laugh.  His  friend  was  silent. 


128  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  ix. 

"  Here  comes  tea,"  said  Frar^ois,  with  an 
abrupt  change  of  voice. 

His  femme  de  manage  entered  with  a  tray 
which  she  placed  on  one  of  the  tables.  She 
went  out,  and  re-entered  with  the  spirit  lamp 
and  kettle. 

"  Voilb,  Mons^e^tr  !  " 

Fran9ois  began  to  put  the  tea  into  the 
teapot. 

"  Antoinette  brews  it  abominably  ;  I  always 
make  it  myself,"  he  remarked. 

"  This  tea-habit  dates  from  '  Sweet  Anne's ' 
time,  doesn't  it  ?  "  asked  the  Vicomte. 

"  I  believe  it  does.  Do  you  remember 
the  flat  in  the  Rue  Vaugirard  ?  And  Anne 
pouring  out  tea  on  winter  afternoons  ?  " 

Before  the  other  man  could  answer,  he 
turned  to  the  picture  again. 

"  I  painted  that  as  a  sort  of  memory  of  the 
first  day  I  saw  her,  in  an  old  English  garden. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  we  four,  the  old  four, 
you  know,  first  met  Anne  Page  ?  You  only 
knew  her  here  in  Paris,  when  she  had  learnt  to 
dress,  when  she  had  learnt  to  talk,  when  she 
had  grown  used  to  us  and  our  ways.  We  saw 
her  in  her  garden,  when  she  knew  no  one, 
when  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  she  spoke 
to  no  one  but  the  invalid  old  woman  with 
whom  she  lived." 


CH.  ix.  ANNE   PAGE  129 

"  What  were  you  four  doing  in  her  garden  ? " 
inquired  the  Vicomte,  helping  himself  to  sugar. 

"Well,  Rene  was  in  England.  He  was 
often  there,  visiting  his  relations — his  mother's 
people. 

"  You  know  he  was  educated  in  England  ? 
Went  to  school  there,  to  Beaumont,  and 
afterwards  lived  some  time  in  London.  Rene 
was  an  Englishman  with  at  least  half  his 
nature.  And  he  loved  England  because  of  his 
mother.  Well,  he  wrote  to  me  that  year — to 
Thouret,  Dacier  and  me,  to  suggest  that  we 
should  join  him  for  the  summer.  He  told  us 
he'd  found  a  gorgeous  village,  where  we  could 
all  paint  and  write,  and  go  on  with  our  beastly 
art  as  much  as  we  liked.  We  thought  it 
wouldn't  be  bad,  so  we  said  all  right,  and 
packed  up  our  traps  and  went. 

"Have  some  more  tea?  Well,  another 
cigarette  ? 

" Dymfield  is  in  Warwickshire,  mon  cher" 
he  went  on,  striking  a  match,  "  And  War- 
wickshire is  Shakespeare's  county,  and  Anne 
Page  is  one  of  Shakespeare's  women.  So  it 
was  all  as  right  as  it  could  be. 

"  We  put  up  at  the  inn.  The  Falcon  it  was 
called.  Such  a  jolly  old  place  !  Sixteenth  cen- 
tury. Yawning  fireplaces,  beams,  oak  staircases, 
walls  a  yard  thick.  You  know  the  sort  of  thing. 

K 


130  ANNE    PAGE  en.  ix. 

"  And  the  village !  Thatched  roofs  all 
stained  with  moss.  Oh,  the  colour  of  those 
roofs !  Cottage  gardens  full  of  hollyhocks 
and  roses.  Such  a  church!  If  you've  ever 
seen  a  really  beautiful  English  village,  you'll 
know  what  I'm  talking  about.  Dymfield  is 
one  of  them." 

"  And  how  did  you  get  to  know  Anne  ?  " 

"  Well,  Rene's  mother  had  been  a  friend  of 
the  rich  woman  of  the  place,  an  old  lady  who 
no  more  deserved  to  possess  Fairholme  Court 
than  she  deserved  Anne  as  her  companion." 

"Cantankerous  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  her  moral 
qualities.  Her  taste  was  execrable.  Anyhow 
Rene  made  his  mother  responsible  for  taking 
us  to  see  the  place — a  wonderful  jumble  of 
every  style  from  the  fifteenth  century  down- 
ward. But  beautiful !  Mon  dieu,  beautiful  as 
a  dream.  And  Fate  was  kind.  The  old  lady 
was  ill  in  bed,  and  sweet  Anne — I  told  you 
she  was  her  companion,  didn't  I  ? — was  forced 
to  do  the  honours." 

Frangois  got  up,  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  floor  as  he  talked. 

"  We  were  all  packed  into  the  drawing- 
room  to  wait,  the  first  time  we  called,  and 
while  Ren£  was  making  absurd  remarks  about 
the  sofa  cushions,  and  the  bead  mats,  and  the 


CH.  ix.  ANNE    PAGE  131 

whole  chamber  of  horrors,  I  caught  sight  of 
Anne  coming  across  the  lawn. 

"She  wore  that  gown."  He  nodded  to- 
wards the  portrait.  "  An  absurd  thing  really, 
but  it  suited  her  because  it  showed  her 
figure." 

"  Her  figure  was  superb,"  murmured  the 
Vicomte. 

"Yes." 

Fontenelle  paused  a  moment.  "  Even  at 
the  time,"  he  said  rather  slowly,  "  I  won- 
dered how  she  would  strike  Rene.  Because 
she  wasn't  really  beautiful,  you  know.  Cer- 
tainly not  in  those  days.  Only  remarkable 
looking,  curious,  and  very  sweet." 

"  But  he  was  struck  too  ?  " 

"  I  remember  he  looked  up  suddenly,  and 
said,  *  By  Jove,  who  on  earth  is  this  ?  It's 
some  garden  goddess  or  other.  Flora.  Yes, 
that's  it, — Flora.  Good  Lord,  let's  run  out 
and  burn  incense  or  something ! ' 

"  She  had  a  heap  of  flowers,  branches  of 
lilac  and  hawthorn  and  things,  in  one  arm, 
supported  against  her  hip,  and  with  the  other 
hand  she  held  her  dress  away  from  her  feet. 
She  was  moving  quickly  across  the  grass. 
You  know  how  she  walks  ? 

"  Then  she  came  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  we  saw  her  curious  face." 


132  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  ix. 

"  There  it  is  !  "  said  the  Vicomte,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  portrait.  "  You've  got  it  exactly. 
Something  between  a  Botticelli  Madonna  and 
a  pagan  goddess — Flora  is  admirable.  But  it's 
the  sort  of  face  that  it  takes  a  painter  to  admire." 

"  She  had  been  considered  hideous  all  her 
life,  of  course.  She  thought  herself  desper- 
ately plain.  Even  when  we  burnt  incense, — 
and  Rene"  at  once  began  to  send  it  up  in 
clouds, — she  thought  we  were  laughing  at  her." 
Frangois  laughed  gently  himself. 

"  You  remember  Anne  ?  You  know  how 
she  would  take  praise.  Adorably,  like  a  little 
girl  who  is  almost  too  shy  to  be  pleased.  It 
was  absurd,  of  course.  She  was  by  no  means 
young  even  then,  remember.  But  somehow 
that  only  made  it  more  piquante.  Anne  is  one 
of  the  few  women  for  whom  age  is  an  absurd 
convention.  Quite  meaningless,  quite  beside 
the  point.  The  goddesses  are  immortal." 

"But  there  was  nothing  of  the  goddess 
about  her  nature,"  objected  his  friend. 

"  Good  heavens,  no !  Except  physically. 
She's  a  mortal  woman  if  ever  there  was  one. 
She's  just  what  she  always  was,  sweet  Anne 
Page." 

Twilight  was  creeping  into  the  studio. 
The  polished  floor  with  its  costly  rugs,  the 
pictures  on  the  walls,  the  outlines  of  cabinets 


CH.  ix.  ANNE    PAGE  133 

and  tables,  all  were  growing  dim  and  indistinct. 
The  last  light  from  the  window  above  the 
men's  heads  fell  across  the  face  of  the  portrait 
on  the  easel.  It  looked  down  upon  them 
gently  with  the  wavering  uncertain  smile  in 
the  eyes,  and  on  the  lips,  red  and  soft  as  the 
petals  of  a  rose. 

"  Rene  saw  a  great  deal  of  her  that  summer, 
I  suppose  ?  "  asked  the  Vicomte,  breaking  a 
silence. 

"  We  all  did.  The  gods  for  their  own 
inscrutable  purposes  had  decided  Anne's  fate. 
The  old  lady  got  weaker  and  insisted  upon 
having  a  hospital  nurse.  She  was  in  her  room 
all  day  in  bed,  and  Anne  was  bidden  to  enter- 
tain us. 

"  When  we  were  not  in  her  garden,  she  was 
at  the  old  barn  which  Ren6  and  I  had  rigged 
up  as  a  studio. 

"  She  amazed  us  all.  Do  you  know  those 
tightly  shut  buds  on  a  rose-tree,  that  you  think 
will  never  open  ?  And  then  the  sun  shines, 
and  gradually,  very  slowly,  a  little  every  day, 
they  grow  pinker  and  sweeter,  till  at  last  they 
are  roses  ? 

"  I  think  the  sun  came  out  for  Anne  that 
year,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

"  We  made  her  laugh.  I  don't  believe  she 
had  ever  laughed  before.  And  we  discovered 


134  ANNE    PAGE  en.  ix. 

that  she  had  brains,  and  taste  and  under- 
standing, and  instinct  for  everything  that  fired 
our  young  brains.  Instinct  is  the  word  for 
Anne.  It's  a  sixth  sense  with  her.  The  only 
sense  it's  any  good  for  a  woman  to  possess. 
The  very  sense  that  nowadays  with  their 
education  and  their  emancipation,  and  their 
'  rights,'  women  are  doing  their  best  to  kill. 

"  And  she'd  read,  mon  cher.  Good  heavens, 
what  she'd  read  !  The  modern  English  woman 
with  her  smattering  of  Latin  and  Greek,  is  an 
ill-educated  prig  beside  her.  For  five  years 
she  had  been  shut  up  in  a  library,  and  I  believe 
she  had  read  everything  worth  reading  in  her 
own  literature,  and  much  of  ours  too,  for  that 
matter.  And  I,  who  like  Rene  am  partly 
English  by  education  at  least,  know  what 
that  means.  It's  a  magnificent  literature  for 
those  who  have  ears  to  hear,  and  a  heart  to 
understand." 

He  began  to  light  one  of  the  lamps,  stoop- 
ing over  it  as  he  talked. 

"  She  used  to  read  poetry  to  us  sometimes. 
Thouret  and  Dacier  knew  very  little  English 
then,  but  they  could  understand  the  simple 
things  when  she  read  them.  I  can  hear 
Thouret  now,  trying  to  say  after  her — 

"  '  I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting ;  and  I  write 
How  Roses Jtrst  came  red,  and  Lilies  white?  " 


CH.  ix.  ANNE    PAGE  135 

Francois  laughed,  as  he  mimicked  the 
accent  of  his  friend  the  novelist,  who  since 
the  days  of  which  he  talked,  had  attained  an 
almost  European  reputation. 

"That's  Herrick.  You  don't  know  him? 
Well,  he's  an  English  seventeenth-century 
poet,  and  he  wrote  on  purpose  for  a  woman 
as  simple  and  natural  as  Anne  Page.  She 
used  to  read  him  to  us  in  an  old  walled 
garden,  where  in  June  that  year,  the  lilies 
were  '  coming  white.' " 

"  And  Dampierre  ? "  asked  the  Vicomte. 
"  I  didn't  know  Dampierre  in  those  days, 
remember.  Tell  me  something  about  him." 

He  spoke  as  one  speaks  of  a  great  man 
who  is  dead,  whose  lightest  word  is  of  im- 
portance to  the  admirers  who  survive  him. 

"  Rene  was  twenty-seven  then,"  said 
Fran9ois,  slowly.  "  He  was  a  year  younger 
than  I.  You  know  how  he  looked  ?  He 
was  like  his  mother.  Quite  magnificent.  Oh 
sometimes  absurdly  handsome,  when  the  right 
mood  affected  his  face.  He  used  to  dress 
like  an  Englishman  in  those  days,  in  white 
flannels.  When  he  and  Anne  walked  to- 
gether they  were  worth  looking  at,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  But  she  was,  what  was  it  ?  Seven — ten 
years  older  ?  " 


136  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  ix. 

"Yes.  She  remembered  that,"  returned 
Francois. 

His  companion  glanced  quickly  in  his 
direction.  He  had  never  heard  the  whole 
story,  and  his  curiosity  was  roused ;  but  some- 
thing in  his  friend's  voice  assured  him  that  it 
would  not  be  gratified. 

He  made  a  tentative  effort,  however,  by  a 
suggestion  half  seriously  offered. 

"  Mon  ami,  you  were  in  love  with  her 
yourself." 

Frangois  echoed  his  light  laugh.  "  No," 
he  declared.  "  No.  My  feeling  for  her  now 
is  what  it  has  always  been.  I  have  paid 
her  the  compliment  of  thinking  of  her  in  a 
different  way  from  every  other  woman  I  ever 
met.  And  I've  never  arrived  at  defining 
that  way  to  myself.  An  English  writer — I'm 
boring  you  to  death  with  English  writers 
to-day, — comes  nearest  to  it  in  his  definition 
of  religion.  He  says  'religion  is  morality 
toiiched  by  emotion! 

"Well,  I  believe  what  I  have  always  felt 
for  Anne  Page  is  affectionate  morality,"  he 
laughed  again,  "strict  morality  mind,  touched 
with  emotion." 

"  Have  you  seen  her  lately  ?" 

"I  saw  her  last  June,  for  the  first  time  in 
three  or  four  years." 


CH.  ix.  ANNE    PAGE  137 

"  She's  altered,  of  course  ?  " 

"  She  has.  She's  more  beautiful.  She's 
really  beautiful  now,  so  that  even  the  turnip- 
headed  people  she  lives  among  see  and 
acknowledge  it." 

"  That's  rather  wonderful." 

"  You  would  think  so,  if  you  saw  her  with 
them.  She's  the  village  goddess  and  oracle. 
Giving  to  charities  with  both  hands,  petitioned 
for  advice  and  counsel,  loved  by  every  one, 
high  and  low.  That's  not  surprising.  Nor 
is  it  more  surprising,  I  suppose,  that  she's 
happy.  Her  nature  is  essentially  simple  and 
maternal.  She  ought  to  have  had  children 
and  children's  children  by  now." 

He  got  up  and  switched  on  all  the  lights, 
revealing  the  spacious  room,  and  the  beautiful 
things  it  contained;  revealing  also  once  more 
the  portrait  on  the  easel. 

The  Vicomte  again  examined  it.  "  The 
Luxembourg  has  made  a  good  choice,"  he 
repeated.  "  It's  a  beautiful  thing,  mon  cher. 
Gracious,  dignified,  sweet — but  sad.  In  spite 
of  the  smile,  because  of  it,  I  suppose,  pro- 
foundedly  sad.  But  why  ?  She  was  not,  she 
is  not  a  sad  woman." 

FranQois  was  moving  about  the  room, 
rearranging  the  canvases  against  the  wall. 

"  She  was  sad  then." 


138  ANNE    PAGE  en.  ix. 

The  Vicomte  waited,  but  Fran9ois  said  no 
more,  and  the  conversation  turned  upon  other 
matters. 

As  he  rose  to  go,  he  stooped  to  examine 
a  little  sketch  propped  up  on  the  top  of  a 
cabinet,  against  the  wall. 

"That's  rather  nice,"  he  remarked  critically. 
"  It's  the  little  woman  I  met  here  the  other 
day,  isn't  it  ?  Dark.  Pretty.  English.  Who 
is  she  ?  " 

"A  Mrs.  Dakin.  By  the  way,  she's  one 
of  Anne  Page's  friends.  One  of  the  people 
in  her  village.  She's  staying  here  with 
Madame  Didier." 

"  Louis  Didier's  wife  ?  Did  they  know 
her  then  ?  "  asked  his  friend  quickly. 

"Who?  Anne?  No.  It  was  all  ages 
before  their  time.  Louis  has  only  been  in 
Paris  five  or  six  years." 

"So  much  the  better.  That  woman's  a 
cat,  mon  cher.  Sleek  fur,  claws  and  all." 

"  Madame  Didier  ?  I  agree,"  returned 
Fran9ois  with  a  laugh.  "  The  typical  English 
devotee  of  Mrs.  Grundy.  Louis  goes  in 
mortal  fear  of  her." 

"Tant  pis!"  exclaimed  the  Vicomte,  with 
an  accent  of  commiseration. 


X 

TOWARDS  the  middle  of  December,  Mrs. 
Carfax  became  possessed  with  the  idea  of 
going  to  London. 

Various  circumstances  had  combined  to 
render  her  projected  visit  pleasurably  fraught 
with  interest. 

There  was  shopping  to  be  done,  of  course. 
There  was  also  Sylvia  to  embrace ; — Sylvia 
whose  holidays  were  so  short  that  she  herself 
had  suggested  the  advisability  of  staying  in 
town  for  Christmas,  in  order  not  to  interrupt 
her  work. 

Naturally  Mrs.  Carfax  was  anxious  to  see 
her  child.  Naturally  also  she  looked  forward 
to  staying  with  the  Lovells,  who  were  old 
friends,  and  had  a  comfortable  house  in  Bays- 
water. 

Then  too,  she  had  been  deeply  interested 
to  hear  that  the  niece  who  was  visiting  Mrs. 
Lovell,  was  none  other  than  the  Madame 
Didier  who  had  invited  Mrs.  Dakin  to  Paris. 

Mrs.  Dakin  had  not  yet  returned  to 
139 


140  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  x. 

Dymfield,  and  it  was  natural  and  neighbourly 
of  Mrs.  Carfax  to  feel  as  much  interest  in  her 
protracted  absence,  as  that  which  palpitated 
in  every  Dymfield  breast.  In  a  few  days  she 
would  be  in  the  position  of  knowing  all  that 
Madame  Didier  knew  about  her  late  guest. 
And  then  there  was  Sylvia  of  course,  and  the 
shopping,  and  the  delight  of  meeting  her  dear 
friends  the  Lovells.  Mrs.  Carfax  was  quite 
determined  to  go. 

"  I  shall  take  the  three  o'clock  train  this 
afternoon,"  she  announced  to  the  Vicar  at 
breakfast  time,  "  and  send  a  telegram  to  Laura. 
She  is  quite  ready  for  me,  and  urges  me  to 
come  at  once." 

"Very  well,  my  dear,"  agreed  the  Vicar. 
"  Please  yourself  of  course,  though  I  scarcely 
think  it  necessary.  You  were  in  town  only 
three  months  ago." 

"  You  don't  think  it  necessary  to  see 
Sylvia,  who  is  not  coming  home  for  Christ- 
mas ? "  demanded  his  wife.  "  Well,  I  do.  I 
have  the  feelings  of  a  mother  after  all,  and 
I  think  it's  cruel  to  leave  the  poor  child  up 
there,  with  never  the  sight  of  a  home  face." 

"  Please  yourself,  my  dear,  as  I  have 
already  said.  There  seems  to  be  a  spirit  of 
great  unrest  working  amongst  us,"  he  went 
on,  stirring  his  second  cup  of  coffee  irritably. 


en.  x.  ANNE   PAGE  141 

"There's  Miss  Page  abroad,  and  Sylvia  away, 
and  Mrs.  Dakin  not  yet  returned.  And  now 
you " 

"Children,  go  upstairs  if  you've  finished 
your  breakfast,"  interrupted  their  mother. 
"  Johnny,  say  grace.  Now  all  of  you  go  and 
get  your  lessons  ready  for  Miss  Hope.  She'll 
be  here  in  a  minute." 

There  was  a  stampede  to  the  door,  and 
when  it  closed  on  the  last  child,  Mrs.  Carfax 
turned  to  her  husband. 

"  It's  most  extraordinary  about  Mrs.  Dakin, 
isn't  it  ? "  she  exclaimed.  "  And  such  a 
strange  thing  that  this  Madame  Didier  should 
be  Major  Lovell's  niece.  I  heard  something 
once  about  a  niece  of  his  having  married  a 
Frenchman,  but  I  never  knew  her  name.  I 
shall  probably  hear  all  about  Mrs.  Dakin  from 
her." 

"  Then  my  dear  Mary,  if  you  do,  I  hope 
you  will  be  discreet." 

"  Discreet,  George  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Am  I  not  always  discreet  ?  " 

The  Vicar  prudently  disregarded  the  ques- 
tion. 

"What  I  wish  to  point  out,  is  this,"  he 
returned.  "  The  duty  of  taking  broad  and 
charitable  views.  There  is  a  reasonable  ex- 
planation of  Mrs,  Dakin's  absence.  I  met 


H2  ANNE    PAGE  en.  x. 

Dakin  yesterday,  and  he  told  me  it  was  a  ques- 
tion of  his  wife's  health.  She's  seeing  some 
doctor  in  Paris,  and  going  through  a  course  of 
treatment." 

Mrs.  Carfax  sniffed.  "  With  her  own  hus- 
band a  doctor ! " 

"  My  dear,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that 
doctors  seldom  attend  their  wives." 

"  You  annoy  me,  George.  You  speak  as 
though  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  that  there  was 
any  other  reason.  I'm  sure  I  hope  with  all 
my  heart  it's  the  true  one.  But  everybody  is 
talking  about  it,  and  I  must  say  I  think  the 
poor  man  looks  very  unhappy." 

"  Broad  views,"  returned  the  Vicar,  clearing 
his  throat,  "  are  those  which  in  Christian  charity 
we  should  always  endeavour  to  assume  with 
regard  to  our  fellows.  Let  us  remember  also, 
that  we  have  neither  part  nor  lot  in  this  matter." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me  straight  out  to 
mind  my  own  business  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Carfax 
angrily.  "  It's  what  you  mean.  And  we're 
not  in  church,  so  you  needn't  beat  about 
the  bush.  You  only  take  *  broad  views '  as 
you  call  them,  when  you  want  to  be  annoying 
and  put  me  in  the  wrong.  You  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  it's  not  right  for  a  wife  to  stay 
months  away  from  her  husband.  Dr.  Dakin 
must  be  a  fool  to  allow  it.  At  the  same  time, 


CH.  x.  ANNE   PAGE  143 

you  know  how  delighted  I  should  be  if  it  is  all 
right.  And  yet  you  pretend  to  think  that  in  a 
spirit  of  vulgar  curiosity  I'm  going  up  to  town 
on  purpose  to  gossip  and  try  to  find  out  things 
which  don't  concern  me  !  My  object  in  going, 
as  you  know,  is  to  see  Sylvia " 

"  And  to  do  some  shopping.  Yes,  my  dear. 
Yes.  You've  said  so  many  times,"  interrupted 
her  husband,  rising.  "  You'd  better  tell  Mark 
to  bring  the  trap  round  at  half-past  two." 

The  Vicar  closed  the  breakfast-room  door 
with  a  slightly  firm  touch. 

"  Is  mamma  going  to  London  to-day  ? " 
shouted  Johnny,  who  regardless  of  lesson  books, 
was  sliding  down  the  banisters  outside. 

"  I  believe  so.  I  trust  it  may  do  her  good," 
answered  his  father  piously.  "  Go  upstairs,  at 
once,  and  get  ready  for  Miss  Hope." 

He  entered  his  study,  and  with  some  disin- 
clination, sat  down  to  the  sermon  for  which 
a  more  deferential  hearing  might  possibly  be 
anticipated  than  that  accorded  in  the  home 
circle. 

Mrs.  Carfax  arrived  at  Rush  worth  Terrace 
just  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Madame 
Didier,  to  whom  she  was  presented  in  the 
drawing-room  just  before  the  gong  sounded, 
was  a  tall  young  woman  of  twenty-seven  or 


144  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  x. 

twenty-eight,  with  a  sharp  face  and  a  thin 
pointed  nose.  Her  fair  hair  was  arranged 
neatly  over  her  forehead,  and  her  dress,  though 
fashionable,  was  undistinguished. 

"  Helen  doesn't  look  a  bit  French,  does 
she  ?  "  asked  her  aunt. 

Mrs.  Lovell  was  a  fat  comfortable  woman 
with  no  figure,  and  less  intelligence. 

"  I'm  glad  she's  kept  so  English.  One 
would  have  thought  that  living  in  Paris  so 
long  would  have  made  a  Frenchwoman  of  her." 

"  We  should  quarrel  if  it  had  !  "  declared 
the  Major  in  a  loud  voice.  "  I  don't  like 
foreigners.  Can't  stand  'em.  Beg  your  pardon, 
my  dear.  I  forgot  your  husband  !  " 

He  laughed  heartily.  "  But  you  must 
excuse  me.  I've  never  seen  him,  and  I  dare 
say  you've  made  an  Englishman  of  him. 
Hope  so,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh,  nothing  would  make  an  Englishman 
of  Louis,  I'm  sorry  to  say,"  answered  Madame 
Didier.  "  He  can't  bear  England.  We're 
always  fighting  about  it." 

"  Well,  come  along  !  Dinner.  Dinner. 
I'm  famished,"  declared  the  Major. 

"  Come  along,  Mrs.  Carfax.  How's  your 
husband  ?  And  the  children  ?  All  well,  eh  ? 
That's  right." 

"  I'm  so  interested  to  hear  that  you  know  a 


CH.  x.  ANNE   PAGE  145 

neighbour  of  ours,"  began  Mrs.  Carfax  during 
the  first  favourable  opportunity  at  dinner-time. 

"  Oh !  Madge  Dakin  ?  Yes.  Aunt  Laura 
has  been  telling  me  that  you  are  neighbours. 
She  has  been  staying  with  us  in  Paris,  as  of 
course  you  know." 

"  Yes.     I'm  so  sorry  to  hear  she  is  ill." 

Mrs.  Carfax  helped  herself  to  bread  sauce, 
and  waited  in  suspense. 

"  Madge  is  never  quite  so  ill  as  she  thinks 
she  is,"  replied  Madame  Didier  in  her  decisive 
voice.  "  It's  all  a  question  of  nerves  with  her. 
However,  I  suggested  she  should  go  to  a  doctor 
who  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good  some  time 
ago.  I'm  a  real  sufferer  from  nerves.  And 
as  I  couldn't  keep  her  any  longer — I  had  visits 
to  pay  and  so  on, — she  is  boarding  with  some 
people  in  Paris  to  go  on  with  the  treatment." 

The  explanation,  delivered  in  Madame 
Didier's  high  thin  voice,  seemed  sufficiently 
reasonable.  Yet  Mrs.  Carfax  was  conscious 
of  an  under-current. 

Her  hostess  was  silent,  but  the  Major, 
always  garrulous,  broke  in  with  one  of  his 
pet  grievances  which  lasted  till  the  end  of 
the  meal,  and  ended  by  proving  anew,  through 
many  ramifications,  that  the  country  was  going 
to  the  dogs. 

In  the  drawing-room,  when  coffee  was 

L 


146  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  x. 

served  after  dinner,  and  her  host  had  gone 
to  the  smoking-room,  circumstances  for  Mrs. 
Carfax  were  more  propitious. 

Madame  Didier  took  out  her  embroidery, 
and  Mrs.  Lovell  lay  back  in  an  easy-chair,  and 
warmed  her  feet  at  the  fire. 

"  Helen  has  been  telling  me  a  good  deal 
about  this  Mrs.  Dakin,"  she  began. 

Her  tone  suggested  that  further  confidences 
might  be  expected  from  Mrs.  Dakin's  friend, 
and  Mrs.  Carfax  sat  upright  in  her  chair,  and 
leant  forward  a  little. 

"Oh,  but  if  Mrs.  Carfax  is  a  friend " 

objected  Madame  Didier. 

"Well,  dear,  so  are  you,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Lovell,  who  as  Mrs.  Carfax  suddenly  decided 
was  really  quite  stupid. 

Madame  Didier's  offended  expression  might 
portend  anything — even  silence. 

Innocent  of  psychology,  Mrs.  Carfax  could 
not  be  expected  to  know  that  on  this  score, 
at  least,  she  need  have  no  apprehension. 

"Of  course  I  am  Madge's  friend,"  said 
Madame  Didier,  stitching  very  fast,  "  and 
that's  why  I  am  so  distressed  at  her  foolish 
behaviour." 

"  What  has  she ?  "  Mrs.  Carfax  paused. 

It  was  perhaps  safer  not  to  interrupt. 

"Oh  only  that  she  rather  annoyed  me  by 


CH.  x.  ANNE   PAGE  147 

flirting  outrageously  with  a  man  who  some- 
times comes  to  our  house.  A  man  I  don't  like. 
But  he's  a  friend  of  Louis's,  and  so  I  have  to 
put  up  with  him.  A  Monsieur  Fontenelle." 

"  Why,  I  met  him  last  spring,  at  a  dinner- 
party ! "  interrupted  Mrs.  Carfax  in  surprise. 

"  So  I  heard." 

The  brief  words  were  enigmatic  in  tone, 
and  Mrs.  Carfax  gave  an  uncomprehending 
gasp. 

"  He's  a  celebrated  man,  as  of  course  you 
know.  He  was  made  President  of  the  Inter- 
national Art  Congress  this  summer,  here  in 
London.  And  he's  naturally  a  splendid 
painter.  But  he's  not  a  nice  man.  Few 
Frenchmen  are." 

Madame  Didier  shut  her  thin  lips,  and  bent 
over  her  embroidery. 

"  You  mean ? "  began  Mrs.  Carfax 

timidly. 

"  If  he  were  an  Englishman,  he  would  have 
a  very  bad  reputation.  But  in  Paris — well ! " 
Madame  Didier  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"There's  no  such  thing  as  morality.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  /  have  never  grown  accus- 
tomed to  it.  I  still  keep  my  English  ideas 
as  to  right  and  wrong." 

"I'm  thankful  you  do,  dear  Helen,"  mur- 
mured her  aunt. 


148  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  x. 

"  I  warned  Madge,"  pursued  her  friend. 
"  I  told  her  all  I  had  heard  about  him.  Louis 
was  angry  with  me,  but  I  thought  it  my  duty." 

"  But  she  hasn't ?  I  mean  there  isn't 

any  danger  of — of  a  divorce,  or  anything  of 
that  kind?" 

Mrs.  Carfax  involuntarily  lowered  her  voice 
to  a  horrified  whisper. 

"  Oh  no !  no !  Let  us  hope  it  won't  come 
to  that.  Mind,  I'm  not  accusing  Madge  of 
anything  but  foolish  flirting.  She  made  a 
dead  set  at  him,  I  must  say  that.  I  don't 
believe  that  otherwise  he  would  have  taken 
any  notice  of  her.  But  Madge  is  so  vain. 
And  then  she  has  an  idea  she  isn't  happy 
with  her  husband.  Well !  a  wife  must  make 
the  best  of  the  man  she  marries.  I  make  a 
point  of  getting  on  with  Louis." 

"  I'm  sure  you  do,  dear,"  interrupted  her 
aunt.  "You're  so  wise." 

"  But  you  think  she's  really  staying  on 
to ?" 

"  I  fear  that  the  excuse  of  her  illness  is 
only  half  true.  She's  staying  on  I  believe 
to — well,  to  go  on  with  the  flirtation,  let  us 
say." 

Madame  Didier  laughed  a  little,  and  took 
a  fresh  thread  of  silk. 

"  Madge  is    a  nice  little  thing,  of  course, 


ci-i.  x.  ANNE   PAGE  149 

but  she's  very  flighty.  I  can't  help  thinking 
that  she  must  have  fallen  under  some  bad 
influence  lately.  She  comes  from  such  a 
good  home.  I  used  to  stay  with  her  at  her 
father's  house  just  outside  York,  when  we 
were  schoolgirls.  The  Etheridges  are  county 
people,  you  know.  Not  very  rich,  but  well 
connected,  and  in  the  nicest  set.  No  fastness 
or  anything  horrid  of  that  sort.  The  right 
sort  of  quiet  county  people.  You  know 
what  I  mean.  We  rather  thought  she  might 
have  done  better  than  a  country  doctor." 

"  Dr.  Dakin  is  extremely  well  connected," 
put  in  Mrs.  Carfax  a  little  stiffly.  He  was 
a  neighbour  after  all,  and  she  felt  that  the 
slighting  reflection  might  easily  extend  from 
the  faculty,  to  the  Church,  of  which  her 
husband  was  so  distinguished  an  ornament. 

"  Oh  yes,  I'm  sure  of  it,"  Madame  Didier 
hastened  to  reply.  "And  a  clever  man,  I 
hear." 

"  Extremely  clever.  And  devoted  to  his 
wife.  This  will  be  a  terrible  blow." 

Mrs.  Carfax  leant  back  in  her  chair,  and 
wondered  whether  she  should  write  to  George, 
or  wait  till  her  return.  She  decided  to  wait. 
A  verbal  recitation  would  be  more  effective. 

"  Oh !  let  us  hope  she  will  recover  her 
senses  and  return  to  her  home.  I  feel 


150  ANNE    PAGE  en.  x. 

terribly  distressed  about  it,  as  it  was  in  my 
house  she  met  Monsieur  Fontenelle." 

"  No  !  She  met  him  first  at  Miss  Page's," 
corrected  Mrs.  Carfax.  "  I  thought  he  seemed 
very  attentive  that  evening.  He  was  talking 
to  her  a  long  time  after  dinner." 

Madame  Didier  looked  up  sharply  from 
her  work. 

"Who  is  this  Miss  Page?"  she  asked. 
"  How  does  she  come  to  know  Monsieur 
Fontenelle  ? " 

"  She's  a  most  charming  woman.  We  are 
very  proud  of  her  at  Dymfield.  I  suppose 
she  met  Monsieur  Fontenelle  abroad.  She 
has  travelled  a  great  deal." 

"Ah!"  Madame  Didier  took  another 
thread  of  silk,  and  matched  it  carefully. 

"  I  only  wondered,"  she  went  on,  "  because 
Madge  was  so  reticent  about  her.  Naturally, 
when  I  saw  her  becoming  so  very  intimate  with 
Monsieur  Fontenelle,  I  inquired  about  the 
woman  who  was  responsible  for  the  first 
introduction.  But  I  could  gather  nothing 
from  Madge  except  that  Miss  Page  was  a 
beautiful  woman,  and  apparently  a  paragon 
of  all  the  virtues." 

Madame  Didier  sniffed  slightly,  and  began 
to  fold  up  her  work. 

"  She's  certainly  a  striking  looking  woman, 


en.   x.  ANNE   PAGE  151 

and  most  generous  and  charitable,"  returned 
Mrs.  Carfax.  "  My  husband  would  not  know 
what  to  do  without  her  financial  and  other 
help,  in  the  parish.  Certainly  we  know  very 
little  about  her  life  before  she  settled  at 
Dymfield  ten  years  ago,"  she  added  rather 
uncertainly. 

"  Good  works  are  the  modern  equivalent 
for  the  convent,  aren't  they  ? "  suggested 
Madame  Didier. 

"  She's  a  charming  woman,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Carfax  in  a  slightly  dazed  voice. 

"  No  doubt.  Yet  I  know  one  woman  who 
doesn't  describe  her  in  those  terms.  Did  you 
ever  meet  a  Mrs.  Crosby?  No?  Well,  she 
is  firmly  convinced  that  Miss  Page  robbed 
her  of  her  inheritance." 

"If  the  doctor  is  at  all  wise,  he  will  go 
and  look  after  his  wife,"  suggested  Aunt  Laura, 
her  remark  making  a  timely  but  unconscious 
diversion. 

"  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  observed  Mrs. 
Carfax  with  significance. 

Madame  Didier  looked  a  little  alarmed. 
"  Please  don't  mention  my  name  !  "  she  begged. 
"  Remember  I  have  said  nothing,  and  that, 
only  in  Madge's  interest." 

"  Discretion  is  my  strong  point,"  returned 
Mrs.  Carfax  with  dignity.  "  I  am  no  gossip, 


152  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  x. 

and  the  last  thing  in  the  world  I  should  wish 
to  do,  is  to  make  mischief." 

"  You  are  always  so  wise,  dear  Mary," 
murmured  Mrs.  Lovell. 

The  ladies  talked  till  a  late  hour,  and 
Mrs.  Carfax  went  to  bed  full  of  an  excite- 
ment which  she  was  shocked  to  recognize  as 
distinctly  pleasurable. 


XI 

TIRING  a  little  of  hotel  life,  Anne  had  taken 
an  apartment  on  the  heights  close  to  the 
Church  of  the  Trinita  dei  Monti. 

In  her  sunny  room  overlooking  the  city, 
in  the  intervals  between  her  rambles,  or  the 
interchange  of  visits,  she  spent  quiet  happy 
hours.  In  Rome,  as  in  no  other  Italian  city, 
time  slipped  back,  and  the  life  of  twenty  years 
ago  seemed  often  more  real,  more  tangible, 
than  her  existence  of  to-day. 

Over  and  over  again,  in  Rome,  she  was 
startled  to  find  herself  living  not  in  the  present, 
but  in  the  memory  of  an  unforgetable  past. 

One  morning,  in  walking  through  the 
Farnesina  Palace,  she  stopped  before  a  window 
to  look  down  upon  a  narrow  walled  garden. 
The  paths  were  mossy  and  weed-grown ;  the 
whole  place  pervaded  by  that  air  of  neglect 
and  decay,  common  to  Italian  gardens.  But 
at  the  end  of  the  enclosed  oblong  space,  there 
was  a  beautiful  old  gate  of  marble.  Orange 
trees  in  rows,  ran  the  length  of  the  right-hand 


154  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xi. 

wall,  and  between  the  glossy  leaves,  the  fruit 
shone  golden.  In  the  centre  grass  plot,  amidst 
the  long  unkempt  grass,  there  were  rose  bushes 
with  pale  pink  monthly  roses  upon  them  ;  and 
overhead  a  roof  of  sky  blue  as  the  heart  of  a 
gentian. 

Miss  Page  turned  her  head  quickly,  a  half 
smile  upon  her  lips,  as  though  to  speak  to 
some  one  at  her  side. 

It  was  twenty  years  since  she  had  looked 
down  upon  that  quiet  garden,  but  the  illusion 
of  a  bygone  day  was  so  strong,  that  she 
expected  to  meet  a  responsive  smile. 

The  summer  of  which  Fran9ois  Fonte- 
nelle  had  spoken  to  his  friend,  as  he  sat 
beneath  Anne's  portrait,  was  the  summer 
which  followed  her  visit  to  her  brother  and 
his  wife. 

Anne  had  returned  with  her  inner  life 
wrecked  and  shattered.  Her  peace  of  mind 
was  gone.  She  spent  no  more  quiet  days  in 
the  library  with  her  books.  A  feverish  rest- 
lessness drove  her  out  of  doors,  where  while 
daylight  lasted,  she  worked  among  her  plants, 
digging,  weeding,  planting  with  such  energy 
that  from  sheer  physical  fatigue,  she  forced 
herself  to  sleep  dreamlessly  till  morning 
renewed  her  toil.  She  was  uninterrupted.  No 


CH.  XL  ANNE    PAGE  155 

one    disturbed    her.     She    had    nothing   else 
to  do. 

In  spite  of  her  protestations,  Mrs.  Burbage 
who  had  been  growing  steadily  feebler  through 
the  winter,  sent  for  a  hospital  nurse,  and  finally 
kept  her  bed. 

"  I  will  be  looked  after  by  the  right 
people,"  she  declared  with  characteristic  deter- 
mination. "  Trained  nurses  are  the  right 
people  to  tend  the  sick.  I  can  afford  to 
pay  for  them,  and  I  will  have  them.  You 
have  had  enough  waiting  upon  invalids,  my 
dear." 

Freed  from  nearly  all  her  customary 
duties,  therefore,  Anne  had  the  long  spring 
days  before  her,  and  with  the  instinct  of  her 
healthy  nature,  she  strove  by  hard  physical 
work,  to  fill  them,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
crush  out  the  mental  malady  which  tore  at 
her  heart. 

"  It's  a  disease,  but  work  will  kill  it,"  she 
told  herself. 

And  she  set  her  teeth,  and  worked. 

She  worked  ;  but  she  was  burdened  with  a 
great  fear  and  a  great  regret. 

Immersed  in  books,  as  for  the  last  five 
years  she  had  become,  she  had  not  hitherto 
noticed  the  isolation,  the  narrowness  of  her 
life. 


156  ANNE   PAGE  en.  XL 

Not  only  had  she  failed  to  miss  the  inter- 
course of  her  fellow  creatures,  she  had  actually 
dreaded  their  approach. 

Filled  with  a  nervous  mistrust  of  her  own 
power  to  please,  she  had  shunned  humanity 
as  represented  by  any  living  soul  outside  the 
gates  of  Fairholme  Court. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  any  one,"  was  the 
dreary  burden  of  her  thoughts.  "  I  don't 
understand  anything  about  real  men  and 
women.  My  own  life  is  empty,  and  so  for 
me,  the  lives  of  others  are  empty  too.  I  have 
nothing  to  say  to  them,  no  help  to  give  them, 
I'm  useless  in  a  world  of  which  I  know  nothing 
except  at  second  hand.  And  as  I  grow  older 
my  heart  will  dry  up  and  wither  more  and 
more,  till  I'm  an  old  maid — the  conventional 
old  maid." 

She  planted  her  sad  thoughts  with  the  beds 
of  lilies ;  she  dug  them  into  the  ground  round 
the  rose-bushes ;  and  serenely,  mockingly,  the 
garden  flourished  and  broke  gradually  into  a 
flood  of  bloom. 

It  had  never  looked  so  beautiful  as  on  the 
day  when  Mrs.  Burbage's  maid  came  to  her 
while  she  was  watering  the  new  rose  hedge 
round  the  sundial,  to  say  that  visitors  had 
called,  and  her  mistress  wished  Miss  Page 
to  receive  them. 


CH.  xi.  ANNE    PAGE  157 

The  lilac  bushes  were  cascades  of  amethyst 
bloom ;  the  hawthorn  trees  were  dazzling 
white,  or  rosy  to  their  utmost  branch.  Anne 
had  broken  off  great  sprays  of  blossom  which 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  sundial,  ready  to  be 
taken  into  the  house. 

She  picked  them  up,  and  full  of  consterna- 
tion and  trembling  shyness,  made  her  way 
across  the  lawn,  and  entered  the  drawing- 
room  by  one  of  the  long  French  windows. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  room  was  full  of 
men,  and  she  put  out  her  hand  blindly  to  the 
tallest  of  them,  murmuring  incoherent  words. 

"  I  am  Rene  Dampierre,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
so  sorry  Mrs.  Burbage  is  ill.  She  knew  my 
mother,  and  me  too  when  I  was  a  child.  I 
should  like  to  have  seen  her." 

The  words,  spoken  with  the  faintest  foreign 
accent,  were  quite  fluent,  and  the  voice  was 
beautiful,  the  gentlest  man's  voice  Anne  had 
ever  heard.  She  ventured  to  look  at  him, 
and  involuntarily  she  smiled,  her  confidence 
restored. 

He  was  very  tall,  she  noticed,  and  big,  and 
bronzed  to  the  roots  of  his  thick  straw-coloured 
hair.  His  eyes  were  brown.  Even  at  the 
moment,  Anne  was  conscious  of  surprise.  She 
had  expected  them  to  be  blue.  But  they  were 
eyes  which  drove  away  her  shyness,  and  she 


158  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  XL 

was  able  to  shake  hands  calmly  with  his  friends 
as  he  introduced  them. 

"This  is  Fran9ois  Fontenelle,  a  painter 
like  myself.  And  this  is  Thouret,  who  writes 
very  bad  verse  and  worse  novels,  and  this  is 
Dacier  who  does  everything — also  very  badly. 
All  my  friends.  And  you — Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  I  am  Anne  Page,"  she  said,  and  to  her 
her  own  amazement,  she  laughed. 

They  all  looked  so  friendly,  and  they  were 
not  at  all  alarming. 

"  Anne  Page  ?  That  is  a  Shakespeare 
name ! "  exclaimed  the  young  man  whom  Dam- 
pierre  had  first  introduced. 

"  Shakespeare  ?  "  repeated  Dacier.  "  Ah  ! 
Si  je  pouvais  seulement  parler  Anglais,  made- 
moiselle !  " 

"  I  can  speak  a  little  French,"  said  Anne 
timidly.  "  But  you  musn't  laugh  at  my 
accent." 

They  surrounded  her  then,  talking  a  babel 
of  mixed  French  and  English,  and  Anne  found 
herself  laughing  with  them,  as  she  tried  to 
reply  to  their  questions. 

"  May  we  see  the  garden  ?  "  asked  Rene" 
Dampierre  presently.  "  Oh  no  !  don't  put 
down  the  flowers  !  I  would  offer  to  take 
them,  but  if  they  are  not  in  your  way,  do 
carry  them.  They  are  just  right." 


CH.  xi.  ANNE    PAGE  159 

"  Oh  yes !  the  goddess  of  the  garden  must 
keep  her  flowers,"  insisted  Dacier. 

Anne  kept  them  uncomprehendingly,  since 
her  compliance  seemed  to  please  her  guests. 

She  was  mystified.  But  they  were  all 
friendly  and  kind,  and  easy  to  entertain.  She 
had  spoken  to  few  men  in  her  life,  and  she  did 
not  know  there  were  any  like  these.  It  was  a 
new  sensation  to  be  addressed  with  deference, 
and  regarded  with  attention. 

Never  before  had  Anne  felt  flattered,  and 
the  sensation  was  agreeable. 

She  took  them  to  her  rose  garden,  and 
showed  them  the  quaint  old  sundial,  which, 
at  her  instigation,  the  gardener  had  brought 
from  an  outhouse  in  which  she  had  discovered 
it,  and  set  up  in  a  space  enclosed  by  clipped 
yews. 

She  showed  them  her  borders  of  snowy 
pinks,  with  the  lavender  bushes  behind  them, 
and  the  garden  she  was  making,  a  fancy  of 
her  own,  (new  then,)  in  which  only  Shake- 
speare's flowers  should  grow. 

"  There  are  a  great  many,  you  see,"  she 
told  them.  "And  such  nice  old-fashioned 
plants.  Rue  and  marjoram,  and  lavender, 
and  marigolds.  I  love  marigolds,  don't  you  ? 
They  won't  come  yet,  though." 

<{  No.      They    are     *  flowers    of    middle 


160  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  XL 

summer,"'  quoted  Monsieur  Fontenelle.  "You 
see  I  know  your  Shakespeare,"  as  Anne  turned 
to  him  with  a  smile  of  pleased  surprise. 

"  And  the  '  daffodils  that  come  before  the 
swallow  dares'  are  nearly  over,"  said  Dampierre. 
"  But  you  still  have  some  pale  primroses  and 
the  violets.  ...  Now  don't  try  to  show  off, 
Frangois,  because  /  want  to  !  ...  '  Violets 
dim,  but  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Junos  eyes 
or  Cythereas  breath.' " 

"  You  are  wonderful  ! "  laughed  Anne. 
"  You  are  Frenchmen,  but  you  know  The 
Winter's  Tale!" 

"  I  ought  to.  I  have  been  brought  up 
chiefly  in  England,"  returned  Dampierre. 
"  But  Fontenelle  is  a  disgusting  genius.  He 
knows  the  literature  of  all  languages  by 
instinct.  He  was  born  knowing  them.  In 
his  nurse's  arms  he  terrified  his  relations  by 
babbling  in  English,  Italian,  Spanish,  Hebrew 
and  Arabic." 

Anne  laughed  again.  "  Then  he  would 
like  to  see  the  library,"  she  said.  "I  will 
take  you  there  presently.  I'm  glad  you 
approve  my  Shakespeare  garden,"  she  added, 
with  a  touch  of  the  shyness  she  had  almost 
forgotten. 

"  It's  delicious!"  declared  Rene.  "That 
old  wall  as  a  background,  and  the  mass  of 


CH.  xi.  ANNE   PAGE  161 

wallflowers  —  gillyflowers,  Shakespeare  calls 
them,  doesn't  he  ?  And  the  beds  of  violets  ! 
The  scent  of  it  all !  It  smells  of  England. 

O 

And  I  love  England,  because  it's  my  mother's 
and  Shakespeare's  country." 

"  You  have  some  of  your  own  flowers 
growing  here,"  he  added,  stooping  towards 
a  bed  of  double  narcissus,  and  glancing  up 
at  Anne  with  a  smile. 

"My  own  flowers  ?  "  she  repeated,  puzzled. 

"  Don't  you  know  the  country  name  for 
these  ?  "  He  was  still  smiling.  "  Sweet 
Nancies." 

"  And  in  Shakespeare  your  name  is  '  sweet 
Anne  Page,'  "  added  Fontenelle,  "the  prettiest 
English  name  in  the  world." 

A  faint  colour  came  to  Anne's  face.  She 
glanced  from  one  to  another  with  a  look  half 
shy,  half  pleased,  half  pitiful. 

It  gave  place  to  a  little  movement  of 
dignity. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  my  name,"  she  said. 

In  her  voice  there  was  a  suggestion  of  fear. 
The  fear  that  these  strange  yet  pleasant  young 
men  were  laughing  at  her.  She  took  them 
across  the  sunny  lawn,  where  the  beech 
tree's  silken  leaves  had  still  the  freshness  of 
spring.  A  thousand  birds  were  singing  and 
calling.  The  scent  of  the  lilac  hung  in  the 

M 


162  ANNE    PAGE  en.  XL 

air,  and  the  hawthorns  were  drenched  in 
fragrant  snow. 

Before  the  irregular  charming  front  of  the 
house,  the  men  paused,  and  breaking  into 
French,  poured  out  ecstasies  of  praise. 

"  Ravissant  !  Quelle  belle  ligne  !  Que 
cest  de'licieux  !  " 

"  This  is  the  library,"  said  Anne,  as  the 
men  followed  her  through  the  open  window 
into  the  dim  beautiful  room. 

It  was  the  one  room  in  the  house  unspoilt 
by  modern  furniture ;  left  just  as  it  had  been 
in  her  old  friend's  day,  with  its  high-backed 
chairs  of  gilded  Spanish  leather,  its  heavy 
rich  curtains  at  the  window,  and  the  books 
reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling,  their  bindings 
of  calf  and  leather  forming  the  most  har- 
monious of  decorations.  Simultaneously,  the 
men  uttered  exclamations  of  delight. 

Fontenelle  rushed  to  one  of  the  shelves, 
and  became  absorbed  in  the  titles  of  the 
books  which  he  read  aloud,  calling  to  his 
companions  now  and  again,  when  he  had  dis- 
covered a  treasure.  Rene  Dampierre  stood 
in  the  embrasure  of  one  of  the  windows,  with 
Anne. 

"  Do  you  read  these  books  ? "  he  asked, 
smiling  down  at  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  Anne,  simply.     "  I  read  them 


CH.  xi.  ANNE   PAGE  163 

for  nearly  five  years.  But  I  haven't  read 
anything  lately,"  she  added,  involuntarily. 

"No?    Why  not?" 

Again  the  colour  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  and 
her  companion,  suddenly  curious,  wondered 
what  he  could  have  said  to  destroy  her 
composure. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  hurriedly.  "  I 
have  been  so  busy  in  the  garden.  Shall  we  have 
tea  out  of  doors  ?  It's  quite  warm  enough." 

She  left  him  to  give  the  order,  and  when 
the  library  door  closed,  Francois  abandoned 
the  books,  and  crossed  the  room  to  him. 

"But  she's  charming!"  he  exclaimed, 
speaking  in  English.  "  Isn't  it  an  unusual 
type  ?  That  clear  pale  face  and  the  soft  hair, 
and  the  soft  voice  ?  I  shall  get  her  to  sit  for  me." 

"  She's  accustomed  to  be  thought  exceed- 
ingly plain,"  remarked  Dampierre. 

Fontenelle  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  By  the  usual  idiot  perhaps.  How  do  you 
know?" 

"  By  her  manner.  She  hasn't  any  of  the 
airs  of  a  pretty  woman.  She  thought  we  were 
laughing  at  her  just  now,  in  the  garden." 

"  If  we  made  her  think  herself  pretty,  mon 
cher,  she'd  surprise  us  all.  There  are  a 
thousand  possibilities  in  that  face." 

"Allans!     I    for    one    am    quite   ready," 


1 64  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xi. 

laughed  Dampierre.  "  I  believe  you're  right. 
She  could  be  beautiful,  though  she's  not  young. 
What  do  you  think  ?  Thirty-two,  thirty- 
three  ? — or  more  ?  " 

Fran9ois  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  It 
doesn't  matter.  She's  one  of  the  women 
for  whom  age  doesn't  count — except  as  an 
improvement." 

"An  unusual  case." 

"Of  course.  But  she's  unusual.  I'm  going 
to  paint  her." 

"  Tea's  ready,"  said  Anne,  appearing  again 
at  the  window.  "  It  was  in  the  drawing-room, 
so  I  just  had  it  carried  out." 

She  was  quite  at  her  ease  now,  and  tea 
was  a  delightful  meal  under  the  flickering 
shade  of  the  beech  tree. 

The  men  praised  her  French,  inquired 
how  she  had  learnt  it  so  well;  laughed  and 
chattered ;  and  finally  took  their  leave,  with 
many  invitations  to  Anne.  She  must  come  to 
their  studio,  which  was  really  only  a  barn.  She 
must  come  to  tea  at  the  Falcon  Inn.  It  was 
quite  worth  seeing.  Above  all,  they  must  come 
back  to  the  most  charming  garden  in  the  world. 

" Pour  revoir  la  ddesse  du  jardin"  added 
Thouret,  lifting  his  hat  with  a  flourish,  as  she 
stood  in  the  porch,  watching  their  departure. 


XII 

"  So  Rene  Dampierre  has  grown  into  a  hand- 
some man,  has  he  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Burbage,  when 
Anne  went  to  her  room. 

She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  with  a  shawl 
thrown  round  her  shoulders. 

Her  face  was  yellow  and  pinched,  but  the 
eyes  that  looked  out  from  under  the  wasted 
forehead,  were  sharp  and  keen  as  ever. 

"Well!  so  he  ought.  His  mother  was  a 
beautiful  creature,  and  his  father  was  well 
enough,  as  men  go.  Jacques  Dampierre  was 
quite  a  celebrated  man  in  Paris,  thirty  years 
ago,  when  I  used  to  visit  them.  A  writer ;  a 
novelist,  I  believe.  I  never  read  any  of  his 
books.  In  those  days  it  wasn't  considered  the 
correct  thing  for  young  women  to  read  French 
novels.  And  quite  right  too.  They're  all 
disgraceful. 

"  Rene's  a  painter,  you  say  ?  Well !  much 
good  may  it  do  him.  He  won't  make  money 
that  way,  though  I  suppose  he  must  have  come 
into  a  decent  income  through  his  father.  He's 

an  only  son." 

165 


i66  ANNE    PAGE  cir.  xn. 

"  His  father  is  dead  then  ?  "  Anne  asked. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  dead  long  ago.  He  died 
a  year  after  his  wife,  and  that's  fourteen  years 
now.  She  was  a  Leslie,  one  of  the  old  stock, 
and  as  I  say,  a  lovely  girl.  Fair,  is  he  ?  Like 
his  mother  then.  Hers  was  the  only  real  gold 
hair  I  ever  saw.  And  she  had  brown  eyes,  like 
a  deer,  or  a  fawn,  or  some  creature  of  that  sort." 

Anne  remembered  the  brown  eyes  that 
ought  to  have  been  blue.  He  had  his  mother's 
eyes  as  well  as  her  hair  then,  evidently. 

"Let  me  see,  Rene  must  be  twenty-seven 
or  twenty-eight  by  this  time,"  the  old  lady 
went  on.  "  I  haven't  seen  him  since  he  was 
a  baby  of  five  or  so.  He  was  a  pretty  boy, 
then.  They  sent  him  over  here  to  be  educated, 
at  that  Catholic  place.  Beaumont  isn't  it  ? 
He  ought  to  be  quite  an  Englishman,  and  I 
hope  he  is." 

"  Well,  he  speaks  English  perfectly,  with 
only  the  very  slightest  accent.  But  I  don't 
think  he's  at  all  like  an  Englishman,"  said 
Anne.  "In  manner,  I  mean,"  she  added. 

"  Humph  I  More's  the  pity.  I  don't  like 
foreigners." 

Anne  was  silent.     She  thought  she  did. 

"  He  brought  friends,  you  say  ?  Well,  tell 
them  to  come  whenever  they  like,  my  dear. 
You're  quite  old  enough  to  look  after  them. 


CH.  xii.  ANNE    PAGE  167 

Catherine  Leslie — Dampierre,  I  mean,  was  a 
good  friend  to  me.  I  should  like  to  show 
hospitality  to  her  boy." 

She  turned  over  on  the  pillow,  her  voice 
growing  weak. 

"  That  will  do,  Anne.  Nurse  will  see  to 
me.  I  can't  talk  ten  minutes  now  without  this 
dreadful  faintness." 

The  nurse  came  up  to  the  bed,  and  Anne 
stepped  aside,  pausing  at  the  door,  to  throw 
a  pitying  glance  at  the  sharp  profile  against 
the  pillow. 

The  old  lady  was  growing  visibly  weaker, 
and  Anne  sorrowed.  She  was  so  lonely,  so 
desolate  at  the  end  of  life.  Childless,  almost 
friendless,  for  brusque  and  downright  in 
manner,  she  had  never  possessed  the  happy 
art  of  engaging  the  affection  of  others,  she 
was  going  down  to  the  grave  almost 
unregarded. 

Few  of  her  own  generation  were  alive,  and 
with  the  younger  race  she  concerned  herself 
but  little.  Anne  knew  that  she  had  a  nephew, 
her  sister's  child.  She  had  occasionally  spoken 
of  him  as  her  heir,  generally  with  the  dry 
comment  that  she  grudged  him  the  money. 

"  He's  a  great  gaby,"  she  often  declared, 
"and  his  vulgar  wife  will  make  ducks  and 
drakes  of  my  fortune. 


1 68  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xii. 

"  But  there,  my  dear,  what  does  it  matter  ? 
In  the  place  where  I  go  there's  neither  know- 
ledge nor  understanding.  It  will  be  all  the 
same  to  me." 

Anne  left  the  sick-room,  and  from  force 
of  habit,  wandered  out  into  the  garden. 

"  How  lonely !  How  desolate ! "  she  found 
herself  thinking. 

"And  I  shall  be  just  as  lonely,  just  as 
desolate  when  it  comes  to  my  turn." 

She  turned  her  face  towards  the  quiet  even- 
ing sky,  in  which,  despite  one  or  two  trembling 
stars,  the  flush  of  sunset  still  lingered,  and  again 
despair  fell  like  a  cold  hand  upon  her  heart. 

All  the  afternoon  she  had  felt  so  gay.  She 
had  been  amused,  interested,  almost  flattered. 

Now  the  words  she  had  just  heard,  recurred 
to  her.  "  Tell  them  to  come.  You  are  quite 
old  enough  to  look  after  them." 

A  sudden  miserable  sensation  of  shame 
assailed  her,  to  remember  how  young  she  had 
felt.  In  welcoming  her  visitors,  she  had  not 
thought  of  her  age  at  all.  She  had  accepted 
them  as  equals  and  contemporaries. 

The  blinding  tears  which  made  her  stumble 
on  the  path  already  dim  with  twilight,  caused 
her  to  bow  her  head  with  the  instinct  of  hiding 
them  even  from  herself. 


CH.  xii.  ANNE    PAGE  169 

"  I'm  quite  old — quite  old,"  she  repeated 
with  something  that  was  partly  a  sob,  partly 
a  shiver.  "  They  didn't  make  me  feel  it, 
because  they  are  kind,  and  they  have  charm- 
ing manners.  But  they  are  young,  and  life 
is  all  before  them.  It's  all  over  for  me — and 
I've  never  had  it." 

The  bats  skimmed  noiselessly  past  her,  in 
the  dusk.  All  the  birds  had  ceased  singing. 
It  was  nearly  dark,  but  with  a  horror  of 
returning  to  the  house,  of  being  shut  within 
four  walls,  Anne  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  sundial, 
and  in  the  darkness  her  tears  fell. 

Yet  next  morning,  in  the  sunshine,  when 
Rene  Dampierre  came  to  ask  her  to  the 
"  studio,"  it  seemed  not  only  easy,  but  natural, 
to  smile,  and  be  well  pleased.  When  she 
found  herself  with  her  new  friends,  depressing 
thoughts  fled  like  magic. 

They  were  so  obviously  glad  to  see  her. 
They  interested  her  so  much  with  their  dis- 
cussions, their  enthusiasm,  their  talk,  fresh 
and  new  to  her,  of  methods,  and  values  and 
style,  in  painting,  in  writing,  in  music,  in  the 
whole  world  of  art  to  which  hitherto  she  had 
travelled  alone  ;  speechless,  like  a  ghost 
amongst  ghosts. 

From    the    outset,   Anne   saw   that   Rene 


170  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xn. 

Dampierre  was  regarded  with  a  certain  ad- 
miring respect  by  his  companions.  Already 
he  was  considered  a  great  man ;  already  they 
looked  up  to  him  as  a  leader,  an  authority. 

Little  by  little,  emerging  from  her  pro- 
vincial ignorance,  she  realized  that  a  world 
of  art  existed  in  Paris,  in  which  these  young 
men  had  already  made  a  place  for  themselves, 
and  were  recognized.  From  the  first,  it  was 
chiefly  through  Frangois  Fontenelle  that  her 
imagination  began  to  work,  began  to  construct 
the  life,  the  surroundings,  the  whole  frame- 
work of  existence,  with  its  modern  thought,  its 
ideals,  its  ambitions,  out  of  which  her  friends 
had  for  a  moment  stepped  into  the  stagnant 
peacefulness  of  this  English  village.  It  was 
with  Frangois  that  she  talked  most  easily. 
His  fluent  speech,  his  gift  of  picturesque  nar- 
ration and  description,  led  her  to  realize  a 
new  world ;  gave  sight  to  her  eyes,  gave  her 
understanding. 

Thouret  and  Dacier  were  delightful  boys, 
younger  by  three  or  four  years  than  the  other 
two  friends. 

Anne  liked  them  heartily,  and  was  amused 
by  their  boyish  high  spirits,  and  nonsense 
talk,  but  her  real  interest  was  with  Frangois 
Fontenelle,  and  Rene"  Dampierre. 

With  Rene,  her  shyness  lasted  longer  than 


en.  xii.  ANNE   PAGE  171 

with  the  others,  and  often  as  she  searched  her 
mind  for  the  reason,  she  could  never  deter- 
mine it,  except  that  as  she  incoherently  put  jt 
to  herself,  he  was  "  so  absurdly  good-looking." 

His  manner  to  her  was  charming,  more 
charming  perhaps  than  the  manner  of  any  of 
the  others,  though  they  all  treated  her  with 
that  flattering  air  of  mingled  deference  and 
admiration  to  which  she  was  growing  accus- 
tomed. But  despite  herself,  the  little  tremor 
of  confusion  when  Ren6  addressed  her,  never 
ceased  to  trouble  and  embarrass  her.  In  the 
company  of  Fran9ois  she  was  at  her  ease ; 
interested,  pleased,  serene,  ready  to  talk  or 
to  listen.  Rene  alone,  though  she  loved  him 
to  talk  to  her,  longed  for  it  in  fact  with  an 
intensity  for  which  she  often  despised  herself, 
never  succeeded  in  effacing  a  secret  inexplicable 
dismay. 

The  days  passed  on.  May  slipped  into 
a  radiant  June.  It  was  a  brilliant  summer, 
warm  and  sunny,  the  first  happy  summer  Anne 
had  ever  known. 

Early  in  their  acquaintance  Fontenelle  had 
asked  her  to  sit  to  him,  and  out  of  doors,  in 
the  garden  of  Fairholme  Court,  he  made  sketch 
after  sketch. 

He  was  always  dissatisfied. 

"  It  isn't  right ! "  he  exclaimed  time  after 


172  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xii. 

time.  "You  are  the  most  elusive  creature  in 
the  world.  I  don't  think  I  know  you  well 
enough  yet  to  get  down  what  I  want.  But 
some  day  I  will  paint  you.  You  are  going 
to  make  my  fortune  ! " 

"  Then  you  must  come  again — many  times," 
Anne  said. 

Even  while  she  spoke,  her  smile  died. 

Next  summer,  who  could  tell  where  she 
might  be  ?  She  could  not  blind  herself  to 
the  seriousness  of  her  friend's  illness. 

And  when  she  was  gone  ? 

Anne  refused  to  look  forward.  Once  long 
ago,  Mrs.  Burbage  had  told  her  she  need  not 
be  anxious  about  the  future. 

"  I  shall  see  that  you  don't  starve,  my 
dear,"  she  had  said. 

But  Anne  realized  that  her  life  would  be 
very  different.  It  would  probably  mean  facing 
the  world  once  more  in  some  sort  of  struggle 
for  existence,  without  the  companionship,  which 
quiet  unemotional  as  it  was,  meant  all  she  had 
ever  known  of  a  friendly  home,  and  human 
affection. 

Often  as  these  reflections  assailed  her,  she 
put  them  from  her.  This  was  her  summer. 
She  would  not  spoil  it  by  thinking  of  cold  rain 
and  wintry  days. 

It  was  while  she  was  sitting  to  Frangois 


CH.  xii.  ANNE   PAGE  173 

that  they  talked  most ;  and  always  sooner  or 
later,  the  conversation  centred  upon  Rene 
Dampierre. 

"He  has  genius,"  Fra^ois  assured  her 
with  the  generous  enthusiasm  of  an  artist  for 
work  that  is  beyond  his  own  powers. 

"  We  are  all  desperately  excited  about 
Rene's  career.  He  will  be  great,  as  Corot,  as 
Daubigny  are  great.  He  is  the  coming  man. 
You  will  see.  In  ten  years  time,  he  will  be  a 
leader,  the  founder  of  a  new  school  of  painting ; 
a  great  power  in  France.  Oh !  we're  going 
to  be  proud  of  Rene" !  Unless,  of  course,"  he 
added  with  a  change  of  tone,  "he  plays  the 
fool.  There's  always  that  to  fear  with  him. 
He  must  let  women  alone.  They're  the  very 
devil  for  smashing  up  a  man's  work ;  and 
that's  Rene's  weak  side.  He's  a  fool  about 
women.  Just  the  sort  of  sentimental  fool 
who's  capable  of  marrying  one  of  them.  And 

if  he  does "  Fontenelle's  shrug  of  the 

shoulders  and  the  gesture  of  his  disengaged 
hand,  completed  the  sentence. 

"  Why  ? " 

Anne  was  accustomed  to  frank  conversation 
from  Frangois  Fontenelle.  He  discussed  his 
own  love  affairs  with  perfect  freedom.  He 
told  her  of  the  adventures  of  his  acquaintances 
in  Paris,  and  with  a  Frenchman's  love  of 


174  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xn. 

analysis,  entered  into  long  discussions  on  the 
psychology  of  love  and  passion. 

Anne  listened  calmly.  Ignorant  as  she 
was,  except  through  her  reading,  of  the  phase 
of  existence  he  described,  she  had  by  this  time 
grown  to  form  a  very  fair  idea  of  the  emotional 
life  of  the  men  in  her  friend's  set  in  Paris. 
Much  of  what  Frangois  said,  she  heard  with 
incomprehension,  not  of  the  facts,  but  of  the 
feelings  to  which  they  corresponded.  She  was 
neither  shocked  nor  surprised.  Frangois'  con- 
versation never  offended  her.  He  talked  to 
her  frankly  as  to  a  grown  woman  of  intelli- 
gence, and  she  accepted  his  confidences  as 
simply  as  they  were  offered. 

As  yet,  Anne  knew  little  about  herself. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  her  to  analyze  her 
own  temperament.  Throughout  her  life  it 
never  occurred  to  her,  and  in  this  circumstance 
lay  the  secret  of  a  certain  simplicity  which  to 
her  dying  day  she  preserved. 

It  never  struck  her  that  her  character, 
formed  in  a  seclusion  unaffected  by  the  clash 
of  argument  and  conflicting  ethical  opinion, 
was  wide  and  generous,  and  original.  Free- 
thinking  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  inasmuch 
as  her  thoughts  were  her  own,  uncoloured  by 
the  prejudices  and  predilections  of  any  sect  or 
party.  Her  life  had  been  forced  into  a  narrow 


CH.  xii.  ANNE   PAGE  175 

channel,  but  quite  spontaneously,  quite  natu- 
rally, her  nature  accepted  a  wide  outlook,  and 
extended  sympathy  and  tolerance  to  lives  and 
standpoints  of  necessity  different  from  her 
own. 

To  many  men  apparently,  love  as  she  had 
dreamed  of  it,  was  an  utterly  different  con- 
ception from  that  she  had  formed  for  herself. 
She  accepted  the  fact,  merely  trying  to  under- 
stand. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  He  might  find 
the  right  wife." 

Frangois  smiled  as  he  looked  up  from  his 
drawing,  and  met  her  blue  eyes,  candid  as  a 
child's,  but  a  woman's  eyes  nevertheless. 

"  Sweet  Anne  Page  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Why 
shouldn't  he  find  the  right  wife  ?  The  chances 
are  a  million  to  one  against  it.  Even  if  she 
exists.  She  would  have  to  be  a  miracle  of 
self-sacrifice  and  comprehension,  and  tact  and 
wisdom,  if  she  were  not  to  stand  in  his  way. 
Rene"  is  an  artist  to  his  finger  tips,  and  if  only 
out  of  consideration  for  women,  no  great  artist 
should  marry.  No !  Rene"  must  always  love 
and  ride  away.  And  the  women  he  loves 
must  be  those  who  are  accustomed  to  see  the 
cavalier  depart,  without  grieving.  The  women 
who  merely  look  out  for  the  next." 

Anne  was  silent.     It  was  a  way  of  love 


176  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xn. 

she  did  not  understand.    Yet  she  could  imagine 
its  existence. 

"  Men  must  be  very  different,"  she  said 
after  a  long  pause.  That  sort  of  thing  would 
hurt  a  woman  so  much.  One  sort  of  woman, 
I  mean.  I  think  it  would  kill  the  best  in  her, 
so  that  if  she  were  doing  any  work  like  painting, 
for  instance,  far  from  helping  her,  it  would 
prevent  her  from  doing  as  well  as  she  might" 

"  Men  are  different.  Most  men.  And  if 
women  would  only  recognize  the  fact,  there 
would  be  fewer  tears.  Love  is  your  whole 
existence,  as  one  of  your  poets  says,  I  believe. 
Bryon,  is  it  ?  For  us  it's  often  an  episode, — 
more  often  a  series  of  episodes.  Sometimes, 
rarely,  the  other  thing.  But  that  for  an  artist 
is  not  a  consummation  to  be  desired.  Think  ! 
His  whole  existence !  What  becomes  of  his 
work  if  it's  merged  in  the  life  of  one  woman  ? 
Why  it  goes  to  pot,  of  course,"  he  went  on 
with  one  of  his  rapid  descents  into  English 
slang,  which  combined  with  his  foreign  accent 
always  made  Anne  smile. 

"  No,  that's  the  price  an  artist  pays — if  it's 
a  heavy  price,  which  I  doubt,"  he  added  with 
the  cynicism  of  youth.  "  No  absorbing  loves 
for  him.  Love  is  necessary  for  his  imagination, 
of  course.  It  fires  him  with  enthusiasm.  It 
gives  him  delight  and  gaiety,  and  bestows  on 


CH.  xii.  ANNE    PAGE  177 

him  the  joyous  mind  to  work.  But  if  he's  a 
wise  man,  no  absorbing  passions.  Above  all, 
no  ties." 

Anne  sighed.  "  I  see  what  you  mean.  But 
it  seems  that  art  is  very  cruel." 

"  It  is." 

"  Then  I  think  if  what  you  say  is  true,  an 
artist  ought  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  any 
woman  who — cares.  But  he  wouldn't  if  she 
pleased  him,"  she  added  softly. 

Frangois  laughed.  "In  your  wisdom  you 
have  divined  the  natural  selfishness  of  man," 
he  said. 

As  the  months  passed  slowly  on,  a  change, 
or  rather  a  development  gradual  but  steady, 
was  taking  place  in  Anne's  nature,  a  develop- 
ment that  presently  made  itself  manifest  in  her 
appearance,  in  her  attitude,  in  her  demeanour, 
physical  as  well  as  mental. 

Slowly  but  surely,  she  was  waking  to  the 
consciousness  of  her  womanhood,  and  of  her 
power. 

The  men  whom  she  had  grown  to  know 
intimately,  regarded  her  with  obvious  admira- 
tion. 

In  their  eyes  at  least,  the  eyes  of  artists,  it 
was  evident  that  she  was  not  as  she  had  hitherto 
imagined,  destitute  either  of  beauty  or  of  at- 
tractive charm. 

N 


178  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xii. 

Ah  !  Voila  sweet  Anne  Page  I  She  had 
grown  used  to  the  frequent  exclamation  when 
she  appeared  in  the  garden  in  which  at  Mrs. 
Burbage's  desire  they  were  always  free  to  come 
and  go  as  they  pleased. 

It  no  longer  made  her  feel  embarrassed 
and  uncertain  as  to  its  sincerity. 

Her  friends'  admiration  for  her  had  become 
a  sort  of  cult.  She  was  a  new  type,  a  woman 
to  be  praised — discreetly,  with  deference — yet 
praised.  They  brought  to  her  the  incense  of 
a  sincere  flattery,  and  to  Anne,  starved  of 
affection  unconsciously  waiting  for  love,  it  was 
very  sweet. 

She  accepted  it  humbly,  gratefully,  with  a 
surprise  as  great  as  her  pleasure.  But  it  could 
not  fail  to  produce  results. 

She  began  to  take  pains  with  her  dress, 
and  her  natural  taste  made  it  easy  to  adapt  the 
simple  gowns  she  possessed,  into  becoming 
garments.  When  Rene  Dampierre  exclaimed 
how  well  something  suited  her,  she  went  to  the 
glass  and  looked  at  herself  with  innocent  grati- 
fication and  astonishment  to  find  that  he  was 
right. 

Her  eyes  grew  softly  bright.  There  was 
often  a  faint  colour  in  her  cheeks. 

Even  to  the  unobservant  conventional  by- 
stander, that  summer  Anne  was  charming.  If 


CH.  xii.  ANNE   PAGE  179 

she  scarcely  recognized  herself  when  she  saw 
her  reflection  in  the  glass,  the  change  in  her 
mental  personality  still  further  surprised  her. 

By  degrees,  so  slowly,  so  insensibly  that  it 
seemed  a  natural  process,  she  had  found  herself, 
and  in  making  that  discovery,  she  had  made 
others. 

These  men  who  had  seemed  so  strange  and 
wonderful  at  first ; — beings  from  another  planet, 
whose  thoughts  she  did  not  understand,  whom 
she  watched  with  interested  amazed  eyes,  be- 
came in  one  sense  very  simple  people.  People 
easily  swayed  and  managed  by  a  woman  older 
than  themselves,  a  woman  naturally  intuitive, 
but  hitherto  deprived  of  the  opportunity  of 
exercising  gifts  of  which  she  had  only  recently 
become  aware. 

Her  conversations  with  Frangois  Fonte- 
nelle,  as  well  as  her  previous  wide  reading, 
had  removed  her  ignorance  of  facts.  The  rest, 
now  that  she  was  freed  from  the  shackles  of 
self-mistrust,  lay  well  within  her  natural  powers. 

To  Fran9ois  Fontenelle,  a  quick  observer, 
even  then  a  man  of  the  world,  possessed 
of  the  keen  and  subtle  intelligence  which  in 
later  years  was  to  stand  him  in  good  stead  for 
the  promotion  of  his  material  prosperity,  the 
change  was  early  discernible.  He  viewed  it 
with  secret  amusement,  and  inasmuch  as  he 


i8o  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xii. 

felt  himself  to  a  large  extent  responsible,  some 
pride,  and  finally  a  touch  of  uneasiness. 

It  was  as  though  some  gentle  creature  too 
inexperienced  to  know  its  strength,  had  unex- 
pectedly without  in  any  way  losing  its  gentle- 
ness, become  dangerous.  Dangerous  to  itself, 
dangerous  perhaps  to  others.  He  often  found 
himself  glancing  uncertainly  at  Rene\  and  then 
reassuring  himself  by  recalling  his  friend's 
natural  instinctive  manner  to  women. 

Ren£  was  always  a  great  success  with 
women.  His  voice  altered  when  he  spoke  to 
them  ;  his  attentions  were  very  charming. 

Frangois  had  heard  the  voice,  and  witnessed 
the  attentions  many  times  before,  and  they  had 
never  meant  anything  more  than  the  sort  of 
thing  which  according  to  him,  in  the  wisdom 
of  his  sapient  youth,  was  "all  right."  The 
love  of  a  few  weeks ;  at  most,  a  few  months. 
Nothing  in  short  that  from  his  point  of  view 
could  affect  the  artist  seriously,  or  jeopardize 
his  position.  Why  then  should  he  feel  uneasy  ? 
Except  of  course,  that  this  was  a  different 
matter.  Anne's  was  not  the  usual  case  ;  he 
could  imagine  no  one  further  from  the  type  of 
woman  who  with  sang-froid  watches  the  depart- 
ing cavalier. 

The  idea  was  preposterous,  ludicrous  to 
entertain  side  by  side  with  the  idea  of  Anne 


CH.  xii.  ANNE    PAGE  181 

Page.  If  Anne  fell  in  love — heavens  !  if  Anne 
fell  in  love ! 

His  brain  almost  ceased  working  at  the 
bare  notion. 

"  Rene"  would  be  done  for,"  he  reflected 
incoherently.  "  I  know  his  idiocy  where 
women  are  concerned.  And  if  a  woman  like 
Anne  Page  falls  in  love,  there'll  be  the  devil 
to  pay !  He'd  have  to  marry  her.  A  woman 
years  older  than  himself.  And  then  exactions, 
tears,  jealousy  of  him,  of  his  work.  Oh  awful ! 
Horrible ! " 

His  rage  at  the  bare  possibility  of  such 
an  event  extended  at  moments  to  Anne.  "  I 
know  these  gentle  women ! "  he  told  himself 
vindictively.  "  They're  worse  than  any  of 
them,  when  it  comes  to  a  love  affair.  Tenacious, 
determined,  implacable " 

And  then  Anne  would  enter  the  drawing- 
room  to  welcome  him,  or  come  across  the 
grass.  Anne  with  her  sweet  gay  smile,  and 
her  gentle  dignity,  and  his  anger  died. 

It  was  all  right,  of  course.  What  a  fool 
he  had  been  !  The  idea  had  never  occurred 
to  either  of  them,  and  all  he  had  to  do  was 
to  keep  his  preposterous  notions  to  himself. 

Moreover,  September  had  arrived,  and  the 
time  for  the  return  of  the  whole  party  to  Paris 
was  approaching. 


182  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xn. 

Ren6  certainly  seemed  in  no  hurry  to 
depart.  But  that  was  comprehensible. 

He  was  working  hard,  and  as  Fran9ois 
allowed,  never  had  he  worked  better.  There 
was  a  tenderness  and  grace  in  his  landscapes 
which  was  new  to  them,  inspired  he  said  by 
the  gracious  beauty  of  Shakespeare's  county. 

But  he  had  finished  the  picture  upon  which 
lately  all  his  efforts  had  been  concentrated, 
and  Fran9ois  was  already  urging  that  it  was 
time  to  go. 

They  were  all  in  the  garden  one  afternoon, 
when  the  subject  was  first  mentioned. 

"  This  is  delicious,  charming,  adorable  !  " 
exclaimed  Fran9ois,  suddenly  looking  from  the 
lawn  across  the  level  meadows,  over  which 
the  sun  was  setting.  "  It  has  been  a  summer 
snatched  out  of  Paradise.  But  we  must  be 
getting  home  to  our  daily  toil." 

Tea  was  over,  but  the  table,  laden  with  silver 
and  dainty  china,  had  not  yet  been  removed. 

Anne  sat  near  it,  in  a  basket  chair,  an  open 
book  on  her  knee,  from  which  at  the  men's 
request  she  had  been  reading. 

Her  white  muslin  dress  with  its  froth  of 
frills  trailed  on  the  grass. 

The  muslin  fichu  crossed  in  front  and 
knotted  at  the  waist,  revealed  a  glimpse  of 
her  long  white  throat. 


CH.  xii.  ANNE   PAGE  183 

Despite  himself,  Frangois  glanced  at  her 
curiously. 

Her  face  was  unmoved,  but  he  fancied  he 
detected  the  faintest  tremor  of  the  frills  at  her 
breast. 

Ren6  was  lying  in  a  hammock  slung 
beneath  the  beech  tree,  and  the  two  younger 
men  lay  on  the  grass,  smoking. 

Frangois'  remark  was  greeted  with  a 
torrent  of  invective  from  them. 

Paris  be  consigned  to  everlasting  perdition  ! 
It  was  still  summer.  Why  talk  of  going  ? 

Rene"  was  silent.  He  raised  himself  in  the 
hammock,  and  with  half-closed  eyes,  looked 
at  the  evening  fields. 

"What  a  beautiful  effect,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Look  there,  where  the  mist  is  rising.  I 
must  get  that.  There's  a  picture." 

"You've  finished  your  picture,  mon  vieux? 
returned  Frangois,  speaking  in  French.  "  I 
know  the  history  of  another  one.  You'll  mess 
about,  and  paint  out,  till  the  snow  is  on  the 
ground.  There  isn't  time.  No !  The  hour 
has  arrived  to  pack  up." 

"  We  can't  leave  sweet  Anne  Page ! " 
declared  Dacier  half  seriously.  He  turned  on 
his  elbow,  and  glanced  up  at  her,  smiling. 
Without  speaking,  Anne  returned  his  smile. 

"  She  looks  like  an  early  Italian  Madonna 


1 84  ANNE   PAGE  en.  XH. 

disguised  as  a  Reynolds  portrait,"  thought 
Frangois  suddenly.  "  Why  on  earth  has  she 
grown  so  ridiculously  attractive  1 "  was  his 
next  irritable  reflection. 

"  She  must  come  to  Paris,"  declared 
Thouret. 

"  But  of  course  she  must  come  to  Paris ! 
When  will  you  come,  Mademoiselle  Anne  ? 
At  once,  won't  you  ?  It's  a  magnificent  idea. 
We'd  take  her  to  the  Elysee  Montmartre  and 
to  the  Nouvelle  Athenes.  Yes !  And  to 
Versailles !  Versailles  in  the  autumn.  Mag- 
nificent !  And  the  little  streets  in  Montmartre, 
and  the  Place  Pigale !  Seriously  wouldn't  it 
be  splendid  to  show  our  Paris  to  Anne  Page  ?  " 

They  talked  all  together,  exclaiming  and 
laughing,  Frangois  joining  them. 

Dampierre  alone  said  nothing.  Pie  was 
still  gazing  over  the  fields,  now  smouldering 
•with  faint  gold,  from  which  here  and  there 
like  incense,  a  ghostly  mist  was  rising. 

"  There's  a  picture  there,"  he  repeated. 

"  Hang  the  picture  !  "  exclaimed  Dacier 
and  Thouret  together.  "  Mademoiselle  Anne 
Page  is  coming  to  Paris.  Aren't  you,  made- 
moiselle ?  " 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "  I  never  go 
anywhere."  She  was  still  smiling,  but  Fran- 
£ois  felt  a  sudden  pang  of  pity  and  compunction. 


CH.  xii.  ANNE    PAGE  185 

To  his  sensitive  ear,  the  words  were  an  epitome 
of  Anne's  life. 

When  it  was  growing  dusk,  they  rose,  and 
this  evening  Anne  did  not  ask  them  to  stay. 

Often  when  it  was  dull,  or  too  cold  to  sit 
in  the  garden,  she  took  them  into  the  library, 
showed  them  her  favourite  books,  sometimes 
read  to  them.  Because  as  Dacier  said,  it  was 
good  for  their  English  accent,  and  she  had 
such  a  beautiful  voice. 

To-day  she  walked  with  them  to  the  porch, 
and  said  good-bye,  in  a  tone  that  was  as 
friendly  as  ever. 

"  Tell  me  when  you  decide  to  go,"  she  said. 
"  We  must  have  a  picnic  or  something  for 
farewell." 

Frangois  turned  at  the  gate,  and  saw  her 
standing  in  the  porch,  her  dress  startlingly 
white  in  the  dusk.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
but  involuntarily  the  troubling  sense  of  having 
wounded  some  defenceless  creature,  returned 
to  him.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  a 
sentimental  fool,  but  the  illusion  did  not 
vanish. 


XIII 

FOR  the  next  "week,  Anne  saw  little  of  her 
friends. 

The  day  after  the  suggestion  for  their 
departure  had  been  made,  the  old  doctor  who 
attended  Mrs.  Burbage,  asked  to  see  her. 

"  I'm  not  satisfied  with  our  patient's 
progress,"  he  said,  closing  the  library  door 
with  much  precaution.  "  I  think,  Miss  Page, 
I  should  prefer  to  have  another  opinion,  and 
I  propose  writing  to-night  to  Dr.  Mears  of 
Harley  Street." 

Anne  listened  with  fear  at  her  heart,  and 
the  next  day,  the  specialist  arrived  from 
London. 

After  a  lengthy  visit,  and  a  subsequent 
conversation  between  the  doctors,  she  was 
told  that  the  case  was  serious,  and  an  opera- 
tion would  probably  be  necessary. 

"Write  to  her  relatives  at  once,"  advised 
Dr.  Mears,  taking  up  his  hat.  "  I  can't 
disguise  from  you  that  there's  cause  for 
anxiety." 

Anne  obeyed,  and  her  letter  was  answered 
186 


en.  XIIT.  ANNE    PAGE  187 

by  a  telegram,  announcing  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Burbage's  nephew  and  his  wife. 

The  intimation  of  their  proposed  visit  was 
received  by  the  patient  with  a  grim  smile. 

"Let  them  come  if  they  please,"  she 
remarked.  "  I  don't  propose  to  endure  much 
of  their  society.  I  shall  claim  the  privileges  of 
a  sick  woman." 

They  arrived  the  same  evening  ;  Mr. 
Crosby,  a  weak-looking  undecided  man  of 
forty,  whose  thin  fair  hair  was  plastered  over 
a  retreating  forehead,  and  his  wife,  a  stout 
somewhat  vulgar  woman,  arrogant  and  over- 
bearing. 

The  visit  was  not  a  success. 

Mrs.  Burbage,  who  once  decided  upon  a 
course  of  action,  remained  characteristically 
obstinate,  granted  them  one  interview  of  ten 
minutes,  after  which  her  door  was  resolutely 
closed. 

Mrs.  Crosby,  pleading  solicitude  for  the 
relative  who  had  always  repulsed  her  advances, 
appealed  to  Anne,  whom  she  at  first  treated 
with  the  superciliousness  suitable  to  a  dependent 
who  had  without  doubt  acquired  for  her  own 
ends,  a  culpable  ascendency  over  the  old  lady's 
mind. 

Three  months  previously,  Anne  would  have 
been  helpless  in  her  hands  ;  too  nervous  and 


1 88  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xm. 

self- mistrustful    to    cope    with     a    blustering- 
woman  of  the  world. 

Now,  scarcely  to  her  own  surprise,  so 
insensibly  had  the  change  in  her  been  wrought, 
to  all  Mrs.  Crosby's  attempted  coercion,  she 
preserved  a  self-possessed  opposition. 

Mrs.  Burbage  did  not  wish  to  see  her 
nephew,  or  his  wife. 

That  was  enough.  She  did  not  see  them. 
After  two  days  which  exercised  all  Anne's 
powers  of  tact  and  self-restraint,  Mrs.  Crosby 
returned  to  her  Devonshire  home,  her  husband 
in  tow,  infuriated  and  baffled  by  the  quiet 
woman  whose  imperturable  dignity  still  further 
roused  her  resentment. 

"  Mark  my  words  Fred,  that's  a  designing 
creature  ! "  she  exclaimed  as  they  drove  to  the 
station.  "  She  behaves  as  though  she  were 
mistress  of  the  place.  An  ugly  pale-faced 
woman  like  that ! " 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  think  her  ugly  exactly, 
and  her  figure  is  certainly  very  good,"  mur- 
mured Fred,  whose  folly  was  proverbial. 

"  Ridiculous  !  "  panted  his  wife.  "  You're  a 
perfect  fool,  Fred !  I  hope  your  aunt  won't 
leave  her  a  farthing.  It  would  serve  her  right. 
Fortunately  we  know  that  the  place  and  every- 
thing is  yours,  otherwise  I  should  leave  no 
stone  unturned  to  get  rid  of  that  young  person." 


en.  xm.  ANNE    PAGE  189 

Anne  was  occupied  next  day  with  prepara- 
tions for  the  removal  of  her  friend  to  the 
nursing  home  in  London  decided  upon  by 
the  doctors.  Only  the  nurse  accompanied  her. 

"  No,  my  dear.  I  refuse  to  have  you 
with  me,"  she  said  authoritatively  to  Anne. 
"  What's  the  use  of  dragging  you  to  town 
when  nurse  does  all  I  want  ?  If  they  don't 
kill  me  between  them,  you  shall  come  up 
and  see  me  afterwards.  I  shall  want  a  little 
change  from  doctors  and  nurses  then.  Just 
now,  you'd  only  be  in  the  way." 

Anne  drove  with  her  to  the  station,  and 
helped  to  arrange  her  comfortably  in  the 
invalid  carriage. 

"Good-bye,  my  dear,"  she  said  rather 
faintly,  as  Anne  bent  over  her.  She  kissed 
her,  and  with  one  of  her  rare  caresses,  gently 
patted  her  hand. 

"  You're  a  good  girl,"  she  added.  "  If  I 
get  well,  it  will  only  be  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  again.  You've  got  quite  pretty, 
Anne.  I  always  had  a  weakness  for  pretty 
people.  Tell  the  young  man,  what's  his  name  ? 
— Ren6,  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  see  him." 

"He  wanted  to  come  to  say  good-bye," 
murmured  Anne,  trying  to  control  her  voice. 

Mrs.  Burbage  shook  her  head,  and  her  eyes 
closed. 


190  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xm. 

"  I  can't  talk  to  young  people.  I'm  past 
it,"  she  whispered.  "  Good-bye,  my  dear. 
God  bless  you." 

The  train  moved  slowly  out  of  the  station, 
leaving  Anne  on  the  platform,  blind  with  tears. 

She  tried  to  remember  that  the  London 
doctor  thought  the  case  by  no  means  hopeless. 
In  vain.  She  felt  desolate  and  overwhelmed. 
She  was  alone — and  her  other  friends  were 
going  too. 

Resolutely  Anne  turned  her  mind  from  this 
last  thought.  She  would  not  tell  herself  that 
it  was  because  she  dared  not  face  it.  They 
were  going  next  morning ;  and  in  the  afternoon 
they  came  to  say  good-bye. 

Though  late  in  the  month,  the  day  was  fine 
and  warm,  and  for  the  last  time,  tea  was  laid 
out  of  doors.  Anne  was  very  quiet  and  very 
pale. 

Dacier  and  Thouret  commiserated  with  her 
on  the  loss  of  her  friend. 

"  But  she'll  get  well.  It's  all  right,"  they 
assured  her  cheerfully. 

Fran9ois  unobserved,  watched  her  carefully. 

Ren6  was  also  very  silent,  and  Francois 
was  grateful  for  the  high  spirits  of  the  two 
boys.  They  insisted  before  leaving,  that 
Anne  should  give  them  each  a  flower  from 
her  Shakespeare  garden. 


CH.  xin.  ANNE   PAGE  191 

The  flowers  of  middle  summer  filled  the 
borders  now. 

"Here  they  are,  all  of  them!"  said  Fran- 
£ois.  "  Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram 
and  marigolds." 

"  But  none  of  you  are  middle-aged,  so  they 
are  not  for  you,"  Anne  returned. 

She  picked  a  late  rose  for  each  of  them, 
Dacier  and  Thouret  receiving  theirs  with 
extravagant  delight. 

"  It  shall  be  buried  with  me,"  Dacier 
exclaimed.  "  But  not  yet.  I've  got  a  few 
things  to  do  first." 

Frangois  groaned.  "  When  I  think  of  the 
reams  of  execrable  poems  I'm  doomed  to  read 
before  that!"  he  exclaimed  as  they  strolled 
under  the  yellowing  trees.  "  Look  here !  We 
must  really  go.  I've  got  all  my  canvases  to 
pack,  and  so  has  Rene." 

"  But  it's  only  au  revoir,"  declared  Thouret. 
"  Sweet  Anne  Page  is  coming  to  Paris.  Cest 
d6jd  une  chose  tout-d-fait  entendue.  Nous  la 
menerons  entendre  Sara,  et  Mounet-Sully  dans 
Hernani" 

"We  shall  have  her  with  us  before  the 
winter  sets  in.  And  then  we  shall  come  back 
next  year,"  added  Dacier. 

"  Good-bye,"  returned  Anne  simply,  shaking 
hands  with  each  of  them  in  turn. 


192  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xm. 

She  walked  back  into  the  house  when  they 
were  gone,  noticing  minutely,  trivial  things 
such  as  a  little  stain  on  the  paint  in  the  hall ; 
a  flower  that  had  fallen  out  of  a  jar  on  the 
window  ledge. 

An  hour  later — when  it  was  nearly  dark, 
Rene  Dampierre  found  her  in  the  rose  garden. 

She  stood  quite  still  when  she  saw  him 
coming,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"  I  came  back,"  he  began,  stammering  a 
little.  "  The  maid  told  me  you  were  in  the 
garden.  I  forgot  this  book.  You  lent  it  to 
me." 

He  held  it  out  to  her  as  he  spoke.  It  was 
a  little  volume  of  Herrick. 

"  Keep  it,"  Anne  said.     "  It's  mine." 

Her  voice  was  steady,  but  her  hands  were 
icy  cold,  and  she  was  shivering. 

He  came  close  to  her. 

"  May  I  ?  Then  will  you  put  my  name 
in  it,  as  well  as  yours  ?  Here's  a  pencil." 

She  rested  the  book  on  the  sundial,  and 
bent  low  over  it,  perhaps  because  of  the  fading 
light. 

"It's  too  damp  for  you  out  here,  in  that 
thin  dress,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  You're 
shivering."  He  touched  her  hand,  and  she 
shrank  back  against  the  sundial. 

"  Anne,"  he  said,  still  more  softly,  and  his 


CH.  xiii.  ANNE   PAGE  193 

voice  trembled.  "  Anne,  I  can't  say  good-bye. 
Promise  that  you'll  come  to  Paris  this  winter. 
Promise !  You  will,  won't  you  ?  " 

He  took  both  her  cold  hands,  and  suddenly 
put  them  to  his  lips. 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  her  face,  but  he 
heard  her  catch  her  breath,  and  when  she 
spoke,  he  scarcely  recognized  her  voice. 

"  Good-bye,  Ren6.  I  want  you  to  go  now. 
Yes,  I  mean  it.  Please  go." 

The  words,  so  gently  spoken  that  he  knew 
he  had  not  offended  her,  were  full  of  the 
authority  of  a  woman  who  expects  to  be 
obeyed.  He  hesitated  a  second,  then  bent 
his  head  again,  and  Anne  felt  him  kiss  the 
sleeve  of  her  dress. 

A  moment  later,  she  saw  his  tall  figure  pass 
like  a  darker  shadow,  through  the  shadows 
that  hung  round  the  gate  in  the  wall.  Long 
after  all  the  light  was  gone,  she  stood  where 
he  had  left  her. 

She  knew  why  he  had  gone.  Almost  as 
though  she  had  been  present,  she  knew  all 
the  wisdom  his  friend  Frangois  Fontenelle  had 
that  day  been  pouring  into  his  ears.  She 
pictured  Frangois'  cold  ironical  anger  if  he 
knew,  or  if  he  came  to  know,  of  this  second 
farewell.  Bitterest  pang  of  all,  she  knew  that 
he  was  right. 

o 


194  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xm. 

She  stood  clasping  her  hands  together. 
"  It's  all  too  late — too  late,"  she  kept  repeat- 
ing unconsciously,  shivering  from  head  to  foot. 

Anne's  prescience  was  not  at  fault.  Late 
the  same  night,  after  the  two  younger  men 
had  gone  to  their  rooms,  Fontenelle  sat  in  the 
parlour  of  the  Falcon  Inn,  and  discussed  her 
with  his  friend. 

"  You've  been  a  fool,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  re- 
marked in  his  dryest  tone.  "  I  warned  you  not 
to  go  back.  Why  couldn't  you  let  well  alone?" 

Rene  sprang  restlessly  to  his  feet,  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  fire  which  he  had  just 
lighted. 

"You  know  well  enough.  Why  do  you 
ask  absurd  questions,"  he  returned  irritably. 
"  It's  no  use  talking.  I  know  I'm  a  fool.  But 
I  can't  get  her  out  of  my  head." 

Frangois  leant  forward  to  tap  his  pipe 
against  the  brickwork  of  the  fireplace. 

"  You  must,"  he  said  shortly.  "  It's  mad- 
ness. This  isn't  a  case  for  fooling.  It's  mar- 
riage— and  suicide.  If  it  were  marriage  or 
suicide  you  would  be  a  wise  man  to  choose  the 
latter  alternative,"  he  added  grimly. 

Rene  moved  impatiently.  "J  know.  I 
know.  You  needn't  rub  it  in.  But — she's 
adorable.  I  can't  forget  her." 


CH.  xin.  ANNE    PAGE 

Francois  regarded  him  patiently.  "My  dear 
fellow,"  he  said  after  a  moment,  "  you  may 
think  you're  in  love,  but  do  at  least  try  to  keep 
off  arrant  nonsense.  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  you  will  forget  her.  That  two  months 
after  you  get  back,  she'll  be  an  occasional  senti- 
mental memory,  and  that  a  year  hence,  you 
will  never  think  of  her  at  all." 

Rend  laughed  shortly.  "  You're  a  detest- 
able brute  ! "  he  exclaimed  with  the  half  wistful 
half  amused  smile  of  a  spoilt  child,  which  made 
part  of  his  charm. 

"  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  you're  always  right. 
I  don't  want  to  marry  her.  I  don't  want  to 
marry  any  one.  I'm  not  the  man  to  marry. 
I've  got  work  to  do.  You're  quite  right.  I 
was  a  fool  to  go  back." 

"  And  I  suppose  there  was  a  love  scene, 
and  a  declaration  of  sorts  ?  " 

Frangois'  voice  was  ironical,  but  there  was 
anxiety  under  the  light  words. 

"  No."  He  grew  suddenly  grave.  "  She 
asked  me  to  go — and  I  went." 

There  was  a  silence  which  lasted  some 
minutes.  The  wood  fire  crackled,  and  the 
lamp  illumined  the  comfortable  room  with  its 
fifteenth-century  beams  overhead,  its  panelled 
walls  and  its  red-covered  sofa  and  chairs. 

"  Anne  Page  is  not  a  woman  to  fool  with," 


196  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xin. 

said  Frangois  at  last.  He  was  thinking  of 
what  she  had  once  said,  sitting  in  the  sunshine 
of  the  garden.  "  Then  an  artist  ought  to  keep 
out  of  the  way  of  any  woman  who  cares.  But 
he  wouldn't  if she  pleased  him" 

The  memory  of  the  last  words  touched 
him. 

"  She's  not  made  for  that  sort  of  thing. 
It's  not  decent.  It's  not  playing  the  game. 
Leave  her  alone,  and  she'll  forget." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  he  wondered  whether 
he  spoke  truth ;  but  that  was  a  question  to 
be  dismissed  with  a  mental  shrug. 

"  I  dare  say  she's  got  nothing  to  forget," 
returned  Rene"  gloomily.  "  I've  no  doubt  she 
thinks  I'm  just  a  ridiculous  young  fool." 

Frangois  did  not  reply. 

"  Women  are  strange  things,"  pursued 
Ren6  presently.  "  They  alter  so.  Anne  has 
grown  years  younger, — and  years  older  since 
we  first  saw  her.  She  manages  us  now.  Have 
you  noticed  ?  "  He  turned  to  the  other  man 
with  a  quick  smile.  "  She  couldn't  have  done 
that  at  first.  She  was  too  shy,  and — what's 
the  word  ? — diffident.  And  yet  at  first,  did 
she  seem  a  woman  to  fall  in  love  with  ?  I 
never  thought  of  it.  I  believe  we  all  looked 
upon  her  as  an  interesting  creature,  and  thought 
ourselves  rather  fine  fellows  for  discovering 


CH.  xm.  ANNE   PAGE  197 

her  beauty, — which  perhaps  doesn't  exist  at 
all.  She  was  something  to  paint,  something  to 
discuss " 

"Something  to  teach,"  added  Frangois 
slowly. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock.  *'  Come  along  ! 
Do  you  see  the  time  ?  And  we've  got  to 
start  at  seven  to-morrow." 

He  got  up,  and  put  his  pipe  in  his  pocket. 

"  The  art  of  life,  my  dear  young  friend," 
he  remarked  with  burlesque  sententiousness, 
as  he  turned  out  the  lamp,  "is  to  manage 
one's  episodes  carefully.  And  to  see  that  they 
remain  episodes." 

Rene  did  not  reply.  He  remained  seated 
in  the  armchair,  after  the  light  was  out,  staring 
at  the  still  leaping  fire. 


XIV 

THREE  days  after  Mrs.  Burbage  went  away, 
Anne  received  a  telegram,  summoning  her  at 
once  to  London.  The  hours  spent  in  travelling, 
and  reaching  the  nursing-home,  passed  like  an 
uneasy  nightmare,  with  a  background  of  dread 
to  be  realized,  and  by  the  time  she  arrived  at 
the  house  in  Wimpole  Street,  her  friend  was 
unconscious. 

She  died  a  few  minutes  after  Anne  was 
admitted  to  her  bedside. 

Of  the  time  that  followed,  Anne  had  no 
clear  idea.  She  felt  dazed  and  uncomprehend- 
ing, and  when  by  the  end  of  the  week,  she 
found  herself  back  again  in  the  silent  house 
at  Dymfield,  it  was  to  wonder  vaguely  how 
she  had  arrived,  and  in  what  a  solicitor's 
letter  which  awaited  her,  could  possibly  con- 
cern her. 

The  writer,  who  signed  himself  William 
Chaplin,  expressed  his  intention  of  calling  upon 
her  next  day,  on  business. 

Anne  received  him  the  following  afternoon, 
198 


en.  xiv.  ANNE    PAGE  199 

standing  before  the  fire  in  the  library,  very 
slim  and  tall  in  her  black  dress. 

Instinctively  she  had  taken  refuge  in  this 
room,  as  the  one  place  unconnected  with  Mrs. 
Burbage ;  the  room  that  held  no  memories  of 
her. 

The  grey-haired  man  who  entered,  shook 
hands  with  her  rather  impressively,  and  sat 
down,  with  the  remark  that  she  was  no  doubt 
acquainted  with  the  contents  of  Mrs.  Burbage's 
will. 

"No,"  returned  Anne,  "except  that  I 
understood  that  everything  was  to  go  to  Mr. 
Crosby,  her  nephew." 

The  lawyer  glanced  at  her  rather  sharply. 

"The  last  will  is  in  your  favour,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Everything  is  left  to  you  uncon- 
ditionally. This  house — all  my  client's  property 
— her  real  and  personal  estate.  Everything  in 
short." 

Anne  turned  a  shade  paler.  She  did  not 
understand,  but  she  was  aware  that  the  little 
grey-haired  man  before  her,  was  making  what 
seemed  to  him  at  least,  an  important  announce- 
ment. 

At  the  end  of  half-an-hour's  conversation, 
she  followed  him  to  the  door,  still  unable  to 
grasp  the  significance  of  his  words. 

"  The  will,  as  I   say,  is  most  simple,"  he 


200  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xiv. 

remarked.  "  Everything  is  quite  straightfor- 
ward, and  we  ought  to  be  able  to  get  the  whole 
thing  through  speedily.  In  the  meantime,  I 
congratulate  you,  Miss  Page,"  he  added  dryly. 
"  Apart  from  the  income,  Fairholme  Court  is 
a  most  delightful  residence."  He  glanced 
about  him.  "  Most  delightful,"  he  added. 

Anne  shook  hands  with  him,  and  went 
slowly  back  to  the  library. 

Dinner  was  served  as  usual  by  the  quiet 
maids,  whose  demeanour  since  the  death  of 
their  mistress,  had  assumed  an  added  shade 
of  decorous  gravity. 

They  liked  Anne,  and  their  manner  towards 
her  expressed  a  kindliness  and  sympathy  for 
which  she  was  grateful. 

To-night,  she  scarcely  noticed  their  solici- 
tude, and  the  dishes  they  set  before  her  were 
taken  away  almost  untasted. 

She  wandered  into  the  library  again  after 
her  lonely  meal,  and  began  to  pace  the  floor 
aimlessly. 

From  time  to  time,  she  took  a  book  from 
one  of  the  shelves,  opened  it,  glanced  at  a  page 
that  was  meaningless,  and  unconscious  of  her 
action,  replaced  the  volume. 

The  dry  monotonous  voice  of  the  lawyer, 
re-echoed  in  her  brain.  He  was  saying  words 
which  signified  nothing. 


CH.  xiv.  ANNE    PAGE  201 

"  Your  income  will  amount  to  between  four 
and  five  thousand  a  year." 

Out  of  a  mass  of  detail,  it  was  only  this  she 
remembered,  and  at  present  it  conveyed  nothing 
to  her  mind. 

She  was  conscious  only  of  a  feeling  of  loving 
gratitude  that  her  friend  had  cared  for  her.  Of 
what  that  care  implied,  in  those  first  hours  she 
realized  nothing.  She  could  only  think  of  her 
last  words  at  the  station. 

"  If  I  get  better,  it  will  be  for  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  again." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  re- 
membered them. 

Gradually  the  hours  wore  on.  The  ser- 
vants went  to  bed,  and  the  house  was  silent. 
Mechanically  Anne  piled  fresh  logs  on  the 
fire,  and  at  last  conscious  of  exhaustion  from 
her  ceaseless  pacing  of  the  room,  she  sank  into 
a  chair,  and  held  her  hands  to  the  blaze. 

She  was  a  rich  woman  now,  the  lawyer  had 
said  so. 

What  did  that  mean  ?  With  all  her 
strength  Anne  tried  to  translate  the  statement 
into  comprehensible  terms. 

First  of  all,  it  surely  meant  freedom  from 
anxiety.  No  weary  heart-breaking  toil  for  a 
bare  existence.  No  painful  counting  of  hard- 
earned  shillings. 


202  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xiv. 

Then, — for  the  first  time  Anne  felt  a 
definite  thrill  of  pleasure, — it  meant  the  power 
to  help  her  brother.  Hugh  should  be  made 
happy  if  money  could  compass  it. 

And  afterwards  ?  Well,  the  realization  of 
some  of  her  day-dreams.  She  could  travel. 
The  wonderful  material  world  need  no  longer 
be  a  mirage,  a  prospect  viewed  only  by  the 
eye  of  faith  and  imagination.  She  might 
become  the  possessor  of  many  beautiful  things. 
Pictures,  books,  furniture,  dress.  She  would 
have  the  power  to  help  people ;  to  relieve 
misery;  to  do  some  tangible  good.  Money 
was  a  talisman  to  unlock  some  of  the  exquisite 
secrets  of  the  world. 

Anne  paused.  Her  thoughts,  clear  at  last, 
and  swiftly  moving,  were  suddenly  arrested. 

Her  wealth  might  do  all  this,  but  there  was 
one  joy  it  could  not  buy,  and  missing  this,  all 
the  rest,  all  the  wonders  it  could  work,  seemed 
dust  and  ashes.  Dead  Sea  fruit.  The  time  for 
love  was  gone,  and  it  had  become  the  one  im- 
possible, unattainable  desire  of  her  whole  being. 

Missing  it,  she  would  miss  the  meaning  of 
existence. 

The  pageant  of  the  world  might  be  re- 
vealed, but  it  would  be  seen  under  the  grey 
skies  of  common  day ;  for  ever  unillumined  by 
the  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea. 


en.  xiv.  ANNE    PAGE  203 

Again  in  her  heart  there  rose  the  fierce 
pain,  the  sickening  hunger  she  had  experienced 
when  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  had  seen 
the  eyes  of  happy  lovers. 

Swiftly  in  bitter  mockery,  her  memory 
placed  her  once  more  in  the  rose-garden, 
where  a  week  ago  Rene"  had  kissed  her  hands, 
and  spoken  to  her  in  the  shaken  voice  she  had 
never  heard  from  a  man's  lips  before. 

If  only  she  had  been  the  girl  to  whom  he 
ought  to  have  been  pleading!  If  only  she  had 
felt  the  right  to  say  she  loved  him  too.  If 
only  she  had  been  the  girl  she  longed  to  be, 
the  wisdom  of  the  wise  would  have  seemed  an 
idle  song.  She  would  have  given  him  her 
love,  freely,  generously,  without  counting  the 
cost,  and  the  future  might  have  taken  care  of 
itself. 

But  as  it  was 

Suddenly  Anne  rose  to  her  feet.  The 
colour  surged  up  into  her  face ;  the  warm 
blood  raced  through  her  body.  She  put  her 
trembling  fingers  on  the  mantelpiece,  to  steady 
herself,  and  stood  looking  down  into  the  fire. 

As  it  was — why  not  ? 

She  felt  bewildered,  dazed,  giddy  with  the 
thought  that  had  come  to  her,  as  emerging 
from  a  dark  passage,  one  staggers  in  the  glare 
of  a  brilliantly  lighted  room.  Through  the 


204  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xiv. 

dazzling  incoherency  of  her  idea,  she  clung  to 
one  certainty. 

If  Rene  was  not  in  love  with  her  as  she 
understood  love,  he  was  at  least  drawn  to  her 
as  a  man  is  drawn  irresistibly  to  a  woman. 
He  had  been  in  her  hands  that  night.  She 
could  have  done  as  she  pleased  with  him. 

Anne  knew  her  power  at  last,  and  de- 
liberately, for  his  sake,  she  had  not  used  it. 
He  had  gone  away.  He  would  forget,  of 

course — unless Slowly  she  sank  into 

her  chair,  and  sat  thinking. 

She  thought  through  all  her  life.  She 
thought  of  the  never-ending  days  of  childhood 
and  youth,  unlighted  by  any  happiness,  any 
hope ;  the  dreary  days  which  had  killed  at  last 
even  her  dreams. 

She  thought  of  Hugh  and  his  wife  in  a  dis- 
tant colony,  happy,  regardless  of  her,  unmindful, 
unless  she  wrote  to  them,  of  her  very  existence. 

She  thought  of  the  heart  of  despair  which 
she  had  brought  back  to  this  very  room  six 
months  ago,  of  the  dumb  certainty  that  life  for 
her  had  been,  was,  and  ever  would  be,  empty 
of  all  gifts,  of  all  delight.  And  then  of  the 
wonderful  months  that  had  just  passed.  Won- 
derful, because  of  all  she  had  learnt  of  others — 
and  of  herself. 

She   remembered    the  diffident   shrinking 


en.  xiv.  ANNE    PAGE  205 

creature,  who  for  shyness  could  scarcely  lift 
her  eyes  to  the  men  she  regarded  with  awe, 
as  dwellers  in  another  world,  whether  gods  or 
devils  she  did  not  know. 

She  could  have  smiled  as  she  thought  of 
them  now. 

They  were  neither  gods  nor  devils,  but 
weak  human  beings  like  herself.  Weaker 
than  herself,  since  they  were  young,  impres- 
sionable clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter. 

And  one  of  them  loved  her. 

She  leant  forward  in  her  chair,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

A  week  ago,  it  had  been  an  obscure  penni- 
less woman  who  had  found  courage  to  arrest 
an  impending  declaration  of  love. 

To-day,  the  same  woman, — she  was  rich, 
her  own  mistress,  independent,  free. 

With  a  wondering  sense  of  the  simplicity 
of  the  matter,  Anne  saw  herself  at  liberty  to 
take  a  step  the  very  existence  of  which,  till 
to-night,  she  had  not  perceived. 

She  sat  immovable,  staring  into  the  fire, 
thinking.  In  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  house 
she  looked  at  facts  face  to  face,  and  made  her 
decision.  Here  was  she,  Anne  Page,  not  only 
a  rich  woman  and  her  own  mistress,  but 
practically  alone  in  the  world.  Life  had 
hitherto  offered  her  nothing.  Now  if  she  had 


206  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xiv. 

courage  to  take  it,  a  great  if  brief  happiness 
was  within  her  reach.  She  loved,  and  was 
beloved.  Too  late,  as  she  had  thought.  But 
was  it  after  all  too  late  ?  Again  Anne  reflected 
while  the  fire  upon  which  her  unseeing  eyes 
were  fixed,  leapt  and  sang  softly  to  itself. 
Not  if  she  could  find  the  further  courage  to 
buy  her  happiness  at  a  great  price.  To  take 
it  while  it  lasted,  and  of  her  own  accord  relin- 
quish it  before  it  had  ceased  to  be  happiness. 

For  as  she  thought  and  planned  Anne  saw 
clearly,  as  only  a  woman  who  is  leaving  her 
youth  behind,  can  see  clearly — without  illu- 
sions, with  only  stern  facts  to  guide  her. 

Rene  Dampierre  was  young.  Naturally, 
inevitably,  sooner  or  later,  he  would  turn  to 
youth  for  love,  and  she  must  not  stand  in  his  way. 

But  because  of  this,  could  she  not  even  for 
a  little  while  know  the  joy  which  was  every 
woman's  birthright  ? 

If  she  were  willing  to  pay  for  it,  why  not  ? 
Whatever  happened,  whatever  misery  was  in 
store,  at  least  she  paid  alone.  She  involved 
no  one  in  her  debt. 

A  cynic  might  have  smiled  at  the  simplicity 
of  her  reasoning.  Not  one  thought  of  her 
changed  circumstances  entered  into  her  reflec- 
tions. She  did  not  consider  that  Anne  Page  the 
penniless  companion  was  a  very  different  being 


en.  xtv.  ANNE    PAGE  207 

from  Anne  Page  the  lady  of  great  means.  To 
her  mind  it  only  affected  the  situation  in  so  far 
that  it  gave  her  freedom  ;  made  it  possible  for 
her  to  follow  her  own  course  without  burdening 
man,  woman,  or  child.  It  was  only  courage 
that  was  necessary.  Courage  to  stake  high, 
and  not  to  shrink  when  sooner  or  later  the 
odds  should  turn  against  her. 

She  measured  her  strength,  and  made  her 
decision. 

The  little  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck 
three,  with  a  shrill  silvery  clamour.  Anne 
started,  and  glanced  round  the  familiar  room 
with  a  shock  of  surprise,  as  though  she  had  been 
long  away,  and  was  astonished  to  find  it  there. 

As  she  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  her  reflection 
in  the  glass  above  the  chimney-piece  also 
startled  her. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  for  ages  she  had 
been  out  of  the  body  also. 

She  met  absorbed  blue  eyes  in  a  face  pale 
but  transfigured  by  an  inner  excitement  and  a 
great  hope. 

She  saw  a  mouth  sweet  and  tremulous,  and 
a  tall  figure ;  very  graceful,  really  beautiful ; 
and  suddenly  she  smiled. 

"  It's  not  absurd.  Not  yet,"  was  the  cer- 
tainty that  suddenly  filled  her  with  triumphant 

joy- 


XV 

EARLY  in  November,  Dampierre  burst  one 
morning  into  Fontenelle's  studio.  They 
worked  in  the  same  house  in  the  Rue  Notre 
Dame  des  Champs,  Rene  on  the  top  floor, 
Francois  two  flights  lower  down. 

He  looked  up  as  his  friend  came  in 

"  Yes.  I  know.  She's  coming,"  he  said, 
without  ceasing  to  paint.  "  This  background's 
the  very  devil.  It's  all  wrong  in  tone." 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

Frangois  nodded  towards  a  side  table. 
"  There's  her  note." 

Dampierre  found  it  amongst  a  litter  of 
brushes  and  palettes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  glancing  over  it,  "  she  says 
the  same  thing  to  me.  She  feels  she  wants  a 
change,  so  she's  shut  up  the  house  for  a  time, 
and  she'll  stay  in  Paris  possibly  on  her  way 
elsewhere.  That's  all  she  tells  me." 

"  The  old  lady  must  have  left  her  some 
money,"  observed  Frangois,  still  apparently 

engrossed  with   his   background.     "  Looks  as 

208 


CH.  xv.  ANNE   PAGE  209 

though  it's  rather  more  than  enough  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  shut  up,  and  leave  that  damned 
picture  alone,  and  be  sympathetic  !  "  exclaimed 
Ren6,  irritably. 

His  eyes  were  bright,  and  he  laughed  rather 
excitedly. 

"  I  know  you're  sick  she's  coming.  But 
I  can't  stand  your  wisdom  any  longer.  I'm 
glad,  do  you  hear  ?  Glad.  Glad.  Glad ! 
And  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  but  that's  just  what  it's  not," 
returned  Fontenelle. 

"  Very  well  then,  it  isn't.  And  I  don't  care. 
I  only  know  I  want  to  see  her  again, — horribly. 
And  she'll  be  here  to-night,  thank  goodness, 
and  I'm  going  to  meet  her  at  the  station." 

Frangois  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  con- 
tinued to  paint. 

"  Where's  her  hotel  ?  Oh,  the  Imperial. 
She's  got  that  out  of  Baedeker."  He  laughed. 

"  Come  now,  Fran9ois.  Own  that  sweet 
Anne  Page  in  Paris  will  be  rather  nice  !  " 

"  You'd  better  ask  her  to  tea  here  to-morrow. 
Your  place  is  even  more  of  a  pig-sty  than 
mine.  We  shall  see  Dacier  and  Thouret  at  the 
Lilas  this  evening.  We  can  ask  them  then." 

"  All  right.  But  I'm  not  going  to  have 
you  about  all  the  time  mind  !  " 

p 


210  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xv. 

"You  won't,"  returned  his  friend  briefly. 
"  I  can't  stand  fools." 

Renews  face  darkened  for  a  moment,  but 
the  retort  died  on  his  lips. 

"  Look  here,  old  man,"  he  urged.  "  Don't 
be  a  beast.  I'm  serious." 

"  Tant  pis?  was  Francois'  implacable  reply. 

But  when  next  day  Anne  was  actually  in 
his  studio,  and  he  heard  her  voice,  and  saw 
her  smile,  and  listened  to  the  laughing  clamour 
around  her,  as  she  sat  in  the  only  armchair 
that  was  not  broken,  and  drank  execrable  tea 
out  of  a  cup  which  did  not  match  its  saucer,  it 
was  difficult  even  for  Fontenelle  to  be  anything 
but  gay  and  pleased. 

With  an  odd  mixture  of  sensations,  he 
noticed  how  fair  her  skin  looked  against  her 
black  dress.  The  fur  she  wore  on  her 
shoulders  was  also  exceedingly  becoming. 
Fra^ois,  who  as  a  painter  of  many  women's 
portraits  knew  something  of  the  cost  of  fem- 
inine apparel,  looked  at  it  with  a  certain 
surprise.  Either  the  old  lady  had  been  fairly 
generous,  or  Anne  in  her  one  day's  shopping, 
had  been  disgracefully  extravagant.  In  either 
case  the  result  was  admirable.  He  emerged 
from  his  reflections  to  find  a  furious  discussion 
raging  as  to  which  restaurant  she  should  be 
taken  to  dine. 


CH.  xv.  ANNE   PAGE  211 

"  Cafe  de  la  Regence"  said  Frangois 
authoritatively,  "  and  afterwards  we'll  drive 
back  to  the  Lilas" 

It  was  several  days  before  Anne  found  her- 
self alone  with  Rene. 

He  came  to  her  hotel  one  morning,  and 
carried  her  off  to  lunch  with  him  at  a  little 
restaurant  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  studio. 

"  You  have  such  a  devoted  body-guard, 
that  I  never  get  a  word  with  you,"  he  com- 
plained. "  And  I  want  you  to  see  my  pictures. 
We  must  get  in  before  the  light  goes.  It  gets 
so  confoundedly  dark  in  the  afternoons  now." 

Later  on  in  the  great  gaunt  studio  at  the 
top  of  the  pile  of  buildings  in  the  Rue  Notre 
Dame  des  Champs,  Anne  stood  before  some 
of  the  pictures  which  in  after  years  were  to 
fetch  great  sums  from  art  collectors,  which 
were  to  be  discussed  by  connoisseurs,  to  be 
execrated,  loved,  praised,  condemned,  admired. 

She  did  not  see  them.  For  her  at  the 
moment,  they  were  non-existent. 

One  thing  only  was  in  her  mind  ;  one  idea, 
and  that  in  the  form  of  a  question. 

How  should  she  accomplish  what  she  had 
come  to  do  ? 

This  was  the  first  time  Rene"  had  deliberately 
sought  her  alone,  and  in  the  circumstance, 


212  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xv. 

without  malice,  she  divined  the  influence  of 
Fra^ois  Fontenelle. 

He  had  meant  to  be  careful.  He  had 
meant  to  see  her  only  in  the  presence  of 
others,  but, — she  knew  him  so  well  that  she 
could  have  smiled, — to-day  he  had  thrown 
prudence  to  the  wind. 

Tenderness  was  in  his  voice,  in  his  eyes, 
even  while  he  kept  tender  words  from  his  lips. 

It  grew  dusk  while  she  lingered.  The 
blue  of  twilight  filled  the  windows,  and  a 
ruddy  gleam  from  the  stove  lay  along  the 
floor.  Anne  sat  down  on  the  couch,  and  Rene 
settled  cushions  at  her  back. 

His  hand  touched  her  arm,  and  for  a 
moment  it  rested  there,  before  he  turned 
abruptly  away. 

Earlier  in  the  day,  Anne  had  spoken  of 
returning  to  Dymfield. 

"  You  musn't  go  yet,"  he  broke  out  all  at 
once.  "  You  won't  leave  Paris  yet  ?  " 

The  words  were  an  appeal,  and  his  voice 
was  not  steady. 

"  I  came  to  see  you,"  said  Anne  deliberately. 

He  turned  to  her  sharply.  It  was  too  dark 
to  see  his  face,  but  she  heard  the  anxiety  in  his 
tone. 

"  All  of  us— or  me  ?  " 

"  To  see  you." 


CH.  xv.  ANNE   PAGE  213 

He  threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her. 
"  Anne,"  he  whispered,  "  stay.  I  want  you. 
Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

He  had  taken  her  hands  and  was  holding 
them  tight  against  his  breast. 

"  No,  Rene." 

The  words  were  decisive,  but  she  made  no 
effort  to  release  herself,  and  her  hands  rested 
quietly  in  his. 

"Sit  here,  beside  me,"  she  said,  moving  a 
little  on  the  couch.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Wondering  at  something  in  her  voice,  he 
obeyed  in  silence,  and  she  went  on  speaking, 
still  very  quietly. 

"  I  won't  marry  you,  dear,  because  I'm  too 
old  for  you.  I  will  never  marry  you.  But  if 
you  want  me,  I  will  stay." 

In  his  amazement,  he  let  her  hands  drop, 
and  bent  forward  to  see  her  face. 

Quite  quietly,  Anne  got  up.  "  It's  very 
dark,"  she  said.  "  I'll  light  the  candles.  I 
saw  where  you  put  the  matches." 

He  watched  her  in  a  sort  of  stupor  as  she 
went  to  a  side  table  for  the  matches,  and 
lighted  one  after  another  of  the  candles  in  a 
sconce  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 

Did  she  know  what  she  had  said  ?  Had 
he  understood  her  ? 

He  sat  staring  at  her  as  she  reached  up  to 


214  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xv. 

the  sconce,  the  movement  throwing  into  relief 
the  lines  of  her  beautiful  figure. 

When  the  last  candle  was  lighted,  she 
turned  to  him  smiling. 

"  No.  You  haven't  misunderstood  me," 
she  said.  "  Now  you  can  see  my  face  you  will 
know  you  have  not." 

She  came  swiftly  across  the  room,  and  sat 
down  beside  him. 

"  Listen,  Rene.  I  will  not  marry  you,  for 
many  reasons.  Two  months  ago  I  was  pre- 
pared never  to  see  you  again.  But  things 
have  altered.  I  haven't  told  you  yet,  but  all 
my  circumstances  have  changed.  I'm  a  rich 
woman  now,  and  my  life  is  my  own,  to  do 
what  I  like  with  it.  And  because  I  love 
you,  I  propose  to  give  it  to  you,  for  a  little 
while  at  least  As  long  as  you  want  me. 
Until " 

Her  voice,  quite  calm  and  quiet  at  first, 
broke  at  the  last  words,  and  she  paused 
abruptly. 

Ren6  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  drew  her 
quickly  up  from  the  sofa  into  his  arms. 

"  Anne ! "  he  cried.  "  Sweet  Anne  Page !  " 
the  words  came  brokenly  between  tremulous 
laughter.  "  You  don't  know  what  you're  say- 
ing. You  will  marry  me,  of  course,  because 
we  love  each  other,  because " 


en.  xv.  ANNE   PAGE  215 

She  put  one  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  so 
kept  him  at  arm's  length. 

"  I  will  never  marry  you,"  she  repeated. 
"  If  you  won't  consent  to  let  me  stay  as  I 
suggest,  I  shall  say  good-bye  to  you  now,  and 
I  will  not  see  you  again." 

"  Remember  Rene,  you're  not  talking  to  a 
girl.  You're  dealing  with  a  woman  who  knows 
her  own  mind,  and  will  have  this  or  nothing. 
If  I  stay  we  both  have  perfect  freedom.  I  am 
old  enough  to  do  what  I  please  with  my  life. 
And  I  please  to  do  this.  Rene,"  for  the  first 
time  the  colour  came  to  her  cheeks,  and  her 
eyes  wavered,  "  you'll  make  me  shy  if  I  have 
to  ask  you  so  many  times  to  let  me  stay." 

She  looked  suddenly  so  like  a  child  as  she 
spoke,  that  in  spite  of  his  perplexed  amazement, 
Dampierre  smiled. 

He  kissed  her  soft  hair,  and  then  her  lips. 
"  You're  adorable,"  he  murmured.  "  But  you 
amazing  woman,  you're  an  enfant  terrible! 
What  am  I  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see  how  simple  it  is  ? "  sae 
asked.  "  I'm  rich  now,  so  I  can  stay  as  long 
as  you — as  long  as  I  please."  She  altered  the 
pronoun  hurriedly.  "  And  you  have  plenty  of 
money,  too,  Rene,  haven't  you  ?  I  mean  that 
we  are  each  quite  independent.  It  makes  it 
all  so  easy." 


216  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xv. 

He  laughed  again  as  the  only  expression  of 
his  otherwise  inexpressible  emotions. 

She  was  as  guileless,  as  simple  as  a  child. 

Yet  she  was  proposing Good  God,  what 

was  she  not  proposing?  And  above  all  she 
meant  what  she  proposed  ;  meant  it  absolutely. 
He  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  knew  that  no 
words  of  his  would  move  her. 

"  But  Anne,  Anne  !  "  he  stammered. 
"  You're  saying  awful  things.  Not  from  my 
point  of  view,  but  as  an  Englishwoman. 
Mon  Dieu !  as  an  Englishwoman  with  the 
fear  of  Mrs.  Grundy  if  not  the  fear  of  God 
before  her  eyes ! " 

She  looked  at  him,  and  his  words,  which 
amazement  and  uncertainty  had  made  flippant, 
died  before  the  sadness  of  her  glance. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "  No- 
body troubles  about  me.  Nobody  has  ever 
troubled.  I  have  never  been  happy  all  my 
life.  And  now  when  I  could  have  happiness 
without  hurting  any  one,  why  must  I  give  it  up 
because  of  a  world  in  which  I  have  no  concern  ?  " 
She  paused  a  moment,  and  looked  at  him  un- 
certainly. 

"You  think  I  ought  to  feel  I'm  doing 
wrong  ?  Perhaps  I  ought.  But  I  dorit  feel 
it,  Rene\  I  should  be  doing  wrong  if  I  married 
you,  because "  She  left  the  sentence 


CH.  xv.  ANNE    PAGE  217 

unfinished,  forbearing  to  tell  him  that  he  would 
some  day  thank  her  for  his  freedom. 

"  Don't  argue  about  it,"  she  said,  smiling, 
though  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  "  It's  my 
last  word.  If  you  won't  agree,  I  shall  go  back 
to  Dymfield  to-morrow." 

"  No.  Don't  let  us  waste  time  now,  at  any 
rate,"  he  exclaimed  eagerly.  "  We  shall  have 
plenty  of  time  to  talk  and  argue.  Just  now 
I'm  too  absurdly  happy!  " 

He  drew  her  down  beside  him  on  the  sofa, 
and  covered  her  eyes  with  kisses. 

"  Anne  1  do  you  know  what  a  sweet  thing 
you  are  ?  No,  of  course  you  don't  know,  and 
that's  what  make  you  so  delicious  !  " 

Even  while  she  thrilled  from  head  to  foot 
with  an  almost  unbearable  happiness,  Anne 
remembered  the  price  at  which  it  was  bought, 
and  told  herself  that  it  was  not  too  dear. 

"  I  only  know  I'm  happy,"  she  whispered. 
"  But  I'm  afraid  of  waking  up  and  finding  it's  a 
dream." 

Again  and  again,  through  the  years  as 
they  passed,  her  own  words  came  back  to  her. 

In  the  summer  evenings  at  Dymfield,  she 
thought  of  them.  When  she  travelled,  they 
often  came  to  her  as  she  stood  before  some 
picture  in  church  or  gallery.  She  thought  of 


218  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xv. 

them  sometimes  at  night,  when  on  some  Italian 
terrace  she  sat  watching  the  sunset. 

To-day  she  remembered  them,  as  she 
walked  home  through  the  sunshine,  and 
mounted  the  stately  Spanish  steps  towards 
her  apartment  on  the  heights. 

"  Twenty  years  ago  ! "  She  repeated  the 
words  to  herself  in  wonder. 

"It  was  a  beautiful  dream,  and  thank  God, 
I  never  waked." 


XVI 

DR.  DAKIN  was  spending  the  night  in  town 
on  his  way  to  Paris. 

For  the  previous  fortnight,  urged  not  so 
much  by  the  impressive  hints  concerning  his 
duty  thrown  out  by  Mrs.  Carfax,  as  by  a 
curious  change  in  his  wife's  letters  to  him,  he 
had  been  on  thorns  of  impatience  to  join  her 
in  Paris,  and  bring  her  home. 

The  serious  illness  of  a  patient,  an  exaspe- 
rating case  which  always  seemed  on  the  point 
of  mending,  only  to  sink  into  another  relapse, 
kept  him  prisoner. 

Not  till  the  previous  day  had  he  considered 
it  safe  to  telegraph  for  the  doctor  he  had 
engaged  to  look  after  his  practice  during  his 
own  absence,  and  a  still  further  delay  had 
been  occasioned  by  the  necessity  of  meeting 
this  man  in  London  to  explain  the  peculiar 
nature  of  the  case  under  treatment. 

Leaving  his  hotel  in  the  evening,  he 
walked  westward  in  search  of  a  place  to 

dine,  meditating  in  a   troubled   fashion  as  he 

219 


220  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xvi. 

walked.  His  wife  had  been  away  more  than 
three  months,  and  he  had  made  no  effort  to 
recall  her.  The  visit,  accepted  ostensibly  at 
least,  partly  on  the  ground  of  her  health,  was 
in  any  case  to  have  been  a  long  one.  Then 
followed  the  plea  of  the  cure  which  a  certain 
well-known  physician  had  prescribed,  and 
again  her  husband  had  agreed  to  her  wishes. 
He  told  himself  to  be  patient.  After  his  talk 
with  Miss  Page,  he  had  been  full  of  hope.  But 
it  would  not  do  to  annoy  Madge  by  bringing 
her  home  again  before  she  wished  to  come. 
It  would  be  wiser  to  let  her  tire  of  Paris,  and 
then  when  she  returned,  he  would  take  the 
advice  of  a  wise  and  charming  woman,  and 
perhaps  there  might  yet  be  happiness  for 
Madge, — and  for  him  too. 

So  he  had  waited,  forcing  himself  to  self- 
control  through  his  hourly  longing  for  her. 

At  first,  for  many  weeks,  her  letters  were 
discouraging; — hurried  and  indifferent.  She 
was  enjoying  Paris.  She  felt  better,  or  not  so 
well.  They  were  the  letters  of  a  woman  who 
writes  perfunctorily,  from  a  sense  of  duty. 
Quite  lately  they  had  altered,  and  though  the 
change  in  them  filled  him  with  delight,  it 
was  joy  mingled  with  uneasiness.  They  were 
hysterical  letters,  composed  of  vague  self- 
reproaches  about  her  selfish  neglect  of  him, 


en.  xvi.  ANNE    PAGE  221 

mingled  with  terms  of  endearment,  and  asser- 
tions of  her  own  unworthiness. 

Fatal  letters  to  write  to  a  man  who  pos- 
sessed a  trace  of  cynicism,  or  of  what  is 
commonly  called  knowledge  of  the  world,  but 
to  the  simple  mind  of  her  husband,  they 
suggested  only  alarming  fears  for  her  bodily 
health.  He  must  go  and  fetch  her  home 
immediately.  Poor  little  Madge !  In  the 
midst  of  his  anxiety,  he  was  not  insensible 
of  a  thrill  of  joy  at  the  thought  that  from 
whatever  cause,  her  heart  had  turned  to  him. 

With  this  thought  in  his  mind,  he  again 
dismissed  as  an  impertinence,  a  letter  he  had 
lately  read  containing  more  than  a  hint  that 
his  wife's  protracted  stay  in  Paris  was  due  to 
a  certain  bad  influence  exercised  upon  her  in 
the  past. 

He  had  never  considered  the  matter 
seriously,  yet  as  he  entered  the  dining-room  a 
moment  later,  the  whole  circumstance  of  the 
letter  and  its  accusation,  was  recalled  by  the 
sight  of  a  face  he  remembered. 

He  had  turned  into  a  restaurant  in  the 
Haymarket,  to  which  on  their  rare  visits  to 
town,  he  had  once  taken  Madge  to  dine. 

With  the  sentimental  idea  at  which  he 
scarcely  smiled,  of  finding  the  exact  place 
they  had  on  that  occasion  occupied,  he 


222  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xvi. 

went  upstairs,  and  was  glad  to  find  the  table 
in  the  corner  disengaged.  He  had  given  his 
order  to  the  waiter,  before  seated  at  some  little 
distance  across  the  room,  he  saw  the  man  he 
recognized. 

For  the  moment  he  was  puzzled,  then  like 
a  flash  came  the  memory  of  a  dinner  party  at 
Fairholme  Court  six  months  ago,  and  with  it 
in  a  flood  the  further  memory  of  other  things 
he  had  for  the  moment  forgotten. 

Monsieur  Fontenelle  apparently  did  not  see 
him,  but  apart  from  the  fact  that  he  had  liked 
him,  Dr.  Dakin  was  quite  determined  to  recall 
their  previous  meeting  to  his  consciousness. 

Madge  had  sometimes  mentioned  him  in 
letters.  If  he  had  recently  come  from  Paris, 
he  would  have  news  of  her.  He  left  his  place 
and  crossed  to  his  neighbour's  table,  with 
outstretched  hand. 

"  We  met  at  a  very  pleasant  little  dinner  at 
Fairholme  Court,  some  months  ago,"  he  began. 
"  My  name  is  Dakin.  I  expect  you've  for- 
gotten it.  Yours  is  a  name  one  can't  forget." 

Fontenelle  gave  him  a  hasty  glance  ;  then 
took  the  hand  he  offered,  with  a  charming 
smile. 

"  But  of  course  !  When  Miss  Page  was 
our  hostess.  Have  you  heard  from  Her  lately  ? 
I  am  told  she  is  coming  back." 


CH.  xvi.  ANNE   PAGE  223 

"  Won't  you  come  to  my  table,  as  we  have 
neither  of  us  begun  to  feed  ?  "  suggested  Dr. 
Dakin.  "  It's  quieter  there.  Out  of  the 
draught." 

"  Delighted  ! "  Frangois  assured  him. 

The  change  was  effected. 

"  I  can  give  you  the  latest  news  of  your 
wife,"  he  said  almost  before  he  was  seated. 
"  I  saw  her  only  yesterday.  I  called  in  fact  to 
make  my  farewells." 

"  How  is  she  ? "  inquired  the  doctor 
anxiously.  It  was  the  one  question  that  con- 
cerned him. 

"Not  altogether  well,  I  fancy.  A  little 
homesick.  Paris  possibly  a  little  on  her 


nerves." 


He  took  up  the  wine  list.  "  Can  we  agree 
as  to  wine  ? " 

The  doctor  made  a  hasty  gesture.  "  Any- 
thing you  like.  I'm  on  my  way  to  bring  her 
home,"  he  observed. 

Fontenelle,  who  was  giving  the  waiter 
elaborate  directions  about  warming  the  Bur- 
gundy he  had  selected,  did  not  at  once  reply. 

When  the  man  had  hurried  off  with  a  Bien 
Monsieur  I  he  looked  at  his  companion. 

"  You  are  going  to  fetch  her  you  say  ? 
Good !  I  think  all  she  wants  is  the  rest  and 
quiet  of  your  charming  village.  Paris  is  not 


224  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xvi. 

the  place  for  nervous  women,  doctor.  The 
atmosphere  is  too  exciting — too  distracting." 
He  made  a  little  comprehensive  gesture  with 
both  hands. 

"  But  you  don't  think  she's  ill  ? " 

In  spite  of  himself,  in  spite  of  his  British 
horror  of  displaying  emotion,  the  doctor's  voice 
shook  a  little. 

"Mais  non !  Mais  non.  Rien  de  tout" 
returned  his  companion,  with  a  reassuring 
smile.  "  Madame  is  suffering  a  little  from 
her  '  cure.'  That  is  only  to  be  expected. 
Pardon  ! "  he  laughed  genially.  "  For  the 
moment  I  forgot  I  was  not  speaking  to  a 
layman." 

The  doctor  laughed  also,  and  tried  to  forget 
that  the  mere  mention  of  his  wife's  name  had 
set  his  heart  beating. 

He  applied  himself  to  his  dinner. 

"  Did  I  understand  that  you're  going  to 
leave  Paris  for  long  ? "  he  asked.  "  I  think 
you  said  you  had  been  to  say  good-bye  to 
Madge — to  my  wife  ?  " 

"I'm  really  uncertain,"  returned  Frangois, 
regarding  him  with  keen  smiling  eyes.  "  I'm 
over  here  on  business  connected  with  the 
exhibition  to  which  your  countrymen  with 
more  politeness  than  discretion  have  elected 
me  President  After  that?"  He  shrugged 


CH.  xvi.  ANNE   PAGE  225 

his  shoulders  with  a  characteristic  gesture. 
"  I  don't  know.  A  journey  to  Egypt,  per- 
haps. But  that  depends  on  circumstances. 
Did  I  tell  you  that  Miss  Page  is  coming 
home  ?  She  may  even  be  in  Paris  by  this 
time.  Mrs.  Dakin  is  evidently  looking  forward 
to  seeing  her." 

For  a  moment  the  doctor  was  silent. 

"  Miss  Page  is  an  old  friend  of  yours — • 
a  great  friend  ? "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  I  think  I  may  say  my  best  and  dearest 
friend." 

At  the  mention  of  Anne's  name  an  imper- 
ceptible change  crept  into  his  manner.  An 
undercurrent  of  irony,  too  subtle  for  his  com- 
panion's apprehension,  vanished  from  his  voice 
and  from  his  words,  which  were  grave  and 
deliberate. 

"  I  might  with  truth  repeat  what  you  have 
said,"  returned  the  doctor  slowly. 

He  took  up  his  knife  and  fork,  and  absently 
replaced  them  on  his  plate,  into  which  he 
stared,  as  though  lost  in  thought. 

"  And  so,"  said  Francois,  watching  him, 
"you  are  naturally  indignant  about  a  certain 
story " 

The  other  man  looked  up  quickly. 

"  I  know  all  about  it,"  Fontenelle  went 
on.  "  Madame  Didier,  who  belongs  to  a 

Q 


226  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xvi. 

certain  feminine  type  indigenous  to  every 
country,  has  worked  with  great  industry,  and 
Fortune  has  favoured  her.  During  her  visit 
to  England,  she  came  across  a  certain  Mrs. 
Crosby,  the  wife  of  old  Mrs.  Burbage's 
nephew." 

He  paused,  and  critically  tasted  the  wine 
which  the  waiter  had  just  poured  into  his 
glass. 

"Bon!"  he  exclaimed  appreciatively. 

"  This  woman,"  he  continued,  "  convinced 
that  her  husband's  inheritance  was  stolen  from 
him  by  our  friend,  naturally  paints  her  in  the 
glaring  colours  of  an  adventuress." 

Both  men  smiled. 

"The  character  suits  Anne  Page,  doesn't 
it?  At  any  rate  it  suited  Madame  Didier, 
who  with  unfailing  resource  has  patiently  un- 
earthed the  story  of  twenty  years  ago.  This 
story,  I  understand,  she  has  lost  no  time  in 
communicating  to  the  wife  of  the  vicar  of 
your  idyllic  village,  whence  having  reached 
the  fountain  head,  I  imagine  it  is  flowing 
in  refreshing  streams  through  the  entire 
county?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  doctor  quickly.  "  The 
vicar,  whatever  qualities  he  may  lack,  happens 
to  be  a  gentleman,  and  is  moreover  one  of 
Miss  Page's  many  friends.  Fortunately  this 


CH.  xvi.  ANNE    PAGE  227 

woman,  Madame  Didier,  wrote  to  him,  not  to 
Mrs.  Carfax,  and  as  the  letter  to  some  extent 
concerned  my  wife,  he  brought  it  to  me." 

Fontenelle  gently  raised  his  eyebrows,  but 
refrained  from  comment. 

"The  vicar,"  Dr.  Dakin  went  on  with  a 
half  smile,  "  is  filled  with  righteous  indignation 
about  what  he  naturally  believes  an  impudent 
lie.  He  has  written  to  his  correspondent, 
threatening  pains  and  penalties  if  she  com- 
municates with  his  wife,  or  tries  in  any  way 
to  spread  the  scandal.  He's  a  wise  man,"  he 
added  dryly.  "  Mrs.  Carfax  is  not  the  woman 
to  be  trusted  with  the  reputation  of  her  dearest 
friends." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  I  didn't  tell  him,"  continued  the  doctor, 
"that  I  had  previously  heard  the  story  from 
my  wife,  who  assures  me  it  is  true." 

Fran9ois's  expression  was  inscrutable. 

"  And — pardon  me — you,  I  imagine,  regard 
the  matter  as,  well  let  us  say  as  an  Englishman  ?" 

"  If  as  I  suppose  I  am  to  understand,  you 
mean  that  I'm  naturally  a  hypocrite,"  returned 
the  doctor  rather  stiffly,  "  you  are  mistaken. 
Miss  Page  is  the  best,  the  most  generous 
woman  I  have  ever  met.  Whatever  her  life 
may  have  been,  that  is  the  result.  The  rest 
doesn't  concern  me." 


228  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xvi. 

A  sudden  light  sprang  into  the  other  man's 
eyes. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  simply,  in  a 
tone  of  sincerity. 

He  looked  round  the  room  which  was 
now  hot,  crowded,  and  noisy  with  the  clink 
of  glasses,  and  the  babel  of  talk. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  do  this  evening  ? 
If  not,  will  you  come  round  to  my  club  where 
we  can  smoke  in  peace  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  nothing  better,"  returned 
Dr.  Dakin. 


XVII 

"  I'M  going  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Anne  Page 
as  I  know  it,"  said  Fontenelle,  as  they  sat  in 
a  corner  of  the  almost  deserted  smoking- 
room.  "  You  may  hear  all  sorts  of  versions, 
and  I  should  like  you  to  listen  now  to  the  true 


one." 


He  smiled,  as  he  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"You  also,  are  a  student  of  psychology, 
doctor,  and  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that 
Anne  Page  is  a  singularly  interesting  study. 

"  Nowadays  in  this  age  of  modern  thought, 
perhaps  I  should  rather  say  in  this  age  of  fads 
and  cranks,  through  which  men  and  women 
are  groping  towards  a  different  conception  of 
life,  her  conduct  would  not  have  been  so 
amazing. 

"If  she  had  been  a  modern  woman,  filled 
with  the  latest  ideas  of  the  sanctity  of  passion, 
whatever  that  may  mean ;  the  duty  of  leading 
her  own  life,  and  so  forth,  one  might  class  her 
with  a  number  of  earnest  feminine  enthusiasts 

whose  brains,  like  the  old  bottles  of  Scripture, 

229 


230  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xvn. 

are  unequal  to  the  strain  of  the  new  wine  of 
recent  ideas." 

"She  doesn't  fit  in  tkere"  returned  the  doctor, 
smiling. 

"  Think  of  it ! "  exclaimed  Francois  with 
sudden  animation.  "  A  simple  gentle  woman 
of  twenty  years  ago.  A  woman  who  had  led 
the  narrowest  of  lives ;  ignorant  of  men ; 
ignorant  of  passion — till  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
seven  she  falls  in  love,  and  is  loved  by  a  man 
ten  years  younger  than  herself.  And  that  man, 
Ren6  Dampierre." 

The  doctor  started.  "  You  mean  the 
painter  ?  " 

Frangois  nodded.  "  She  was  his  mistress 
for  three  years." 

Both  men  smoked  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments. 

"  One  might  have  guessed,"  said  the  doctor 
quietly,  "  that  she  would  choose  a  lover  worthy 
of  her." 

"  Anne  is  an  unconscious  artist,"  returned 
Fontenelle.  "  It  was  the  most  beautiful  love 
affair  I  have  ever  known.  The  only  perfect 
one — thanks  to  her  courage  and  self-sacrifice. 

"  Anne  is  a  simple  woman  in  the  sense  that 
all  her  emotions  are  unsophisticated,  original, 
generous.  But  she  is  also  the  wisest  woman  I 
ever  met. 


CH.  xvii.  ANNE    PAGE  231 

"  She  knew  Rene  better  than  he  knew 
himself.  That  is  to  say,  she  knew  men — or 
rather  divined  their  natures,  by  her  sixth  sense 
of  intuition. 

"  She  might  have  married  him.  He  wanted 
to  marry  her.  But  she  knew  what  the  result 
would  be. 

"  Oh,  Ren6  was  not  a  brute,"  he  exclaimed 
in  answer  to  his  companion's  sudden  move- 
ment. "  Far  from  it.  Except  for  his  genius, 
he  was  the  average  kindly  natured  man.  But 
Anne  very  wisely  took  his  genius  into  account. 
He  was  not  the  man  to  marry,  and  she  knew 
it.  She  is  proud,  as  only  a  woman  of  her  type 
can  be  proud.  And  then — here  felt  the  artist 
in  life — this  was  her  first  and  last  passion,  the 
only  vital  emotion  she  had  ever  experienced 
in  an  existence  otherwise  incredibly  grey,  in- 
credibly monotonous.  She  wanted  to  make 
it  a  perfect  memory  for  herself,  as  well  as  for 
him." 

He  paused  a  moment,  throwing  back  his 
head  against  the  padded  chair,  while  he 
watched  the  rings  of  smoke  he  was  blowing. 

"  And  so,"  he  went  on  presently,  "  she  made 
a  resolve  which  few  women  would  have  found 
the  courage  either  to  make,  or  what  is  more 
important — to  keep.  She  determined  to  stay 
with  him  only  while  his  first  passion  lasted. 


232  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xvn. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  go  even  before  the 
first  cloud  was  in  the  sky, — at  any  rate  before 
it  was  visible  to  him.  Women  have  keener 
eyes  than  men  for  rising  clouds." 

The  doctor  was  silent.  "  Rightly  or 
wrongly,"  he  went  on,  "  she  felt  that  only  in 
this  way,  only  by  running  no  risk  of  injuring 
either  him  or  his  career,  she  was  justified  in 
taking  her  little  measure  of  happiness.  She 
knew  him  very  well,"  he  added  meditatively. 
"  Rene  was  as  weak  as  most  of  us,  weaker 
than  some  perhaps,  where  women  are  con- 
cerned. He  would  have  been  unfaithful,  but 
he  could  never  take  his  unfaithfulness  callously. 
He  would  have  been  torn  perpetually  between 
his  desires,  and  his  dread  of  hurting  her.  And 
his  work  would  have  suffered  terribly.  Anne 
was  right  to  go." 

"  You  speak  as  an  artist,"  remarked  the 
doctor  drily. 

"  I  can  speak  in  no  other  way,"  returned 
Fran9ois.  "  Rene  Dampierre  was  a  great 
man  with  a  definite  work  to  do." 

"  But  Dampierre,  —  Ren6  Dampierre  ? " 
The  doctor  uttered  the  name  with  respect. 
"  He  must  have  died  soon  afterwards,  surely  ?" 

"  Eighteen  months  afterwards.  But  not, 
I  regret  to  tell  you,  of  a  broken  heart." 

Fran9ois  placed  the  end  of  his  cigarette 


CH.  xvn.  ANNE  PAGE  233 

in  the  ash-tray  before  him,  and  ground  it  to 
powder.  His  smile  was  a  curious  blend  of 
sadness  and  irony. 

"  It  was  an  accident,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  result  of  a  fall  from  his  horse. 
He  was  riding  at  Chantilly." 

"  And  you  mean  that ?  " 

"  That  Anne  was  right  to  go.  She  knew 
the  woman  before  Rene  himself  guessed  the 
truth.  She  suffered  I  know,  or  perhaps  as 
I  don't  know.  But  not  so  horribly,  I  think, 
as  they  would  both  have  suffered  if  she  had 
stayed.  And  she  made  her  exit  with  dignity." 
He  smiled  again.  "  I  am  a  Frenchman,  doctor, 
and  I  suppose  the  love  of  le  beau  geste  is  in 
my  blood.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  Anne  Page." 

When  Dr.  Dakin  spoke,  it  was  in  a  voice 
from  which  he  could  not  banish  indignation. 

"  It  seems  incredible  !  That  he  could  forget 
a  woman  like  that,  I  mean." 

His  own  faithful  nature  rose  up  in  revolt 
at  the  outrage  to  all  his  sentiments  of  enduring 
love. 

"  He  didn't,"  returned  Frangois  quickly. 
"  Anne  had  no  real  rival.  She  may  rest  in 
peace.  Fate  was  kind  to  her — and  perhaps 
to  him,"  he  added.  "Their  love  while  it 
lasted,  was  perfect,  and  death  settled  the 
future.  You  are  thinking  that  if  any  woman 


234  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xvn. 

was  worthy  of  fidelity  it  was  Anne  Page  ?  I 
agree  with  you.  But  when  a  woman  late  in 

life  falls  in  love  with  a  genius "  he  made 

a  gesture  with  his  hand,  and  left  the  sentence 
unfinished. 

"  Tragic,  doctor,  I  admit.  But  it's  life, — 
and  Anne  knew  and  accepted  it." 

The  faint  irony  which  he  could  seldom 
keep  out  of  his  voice,  was  almost  submerged 
by  something  that  sounded  like  real  emotion. 

"  You  knew  them  both  very  well,  of 
course  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Dakin,  after  quite  a  long 
silence.  "  When  they  were  together,  I  mean." 

"  I  was  with  them  nearly  every  evening, 
when  they  entertained  all  the  men  best  worth 
knowing,  in  Paris  It  must  have  struck  you 
that  Anne  is  a  woman  of  unusual  mental 
distinction  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  very  brilliant  woman." 

"  That  is  easily  discernible  when,  as  with 
you,  she  has  a  chance  of  real  conversation. 
She  has  naturally  a  keen  quick  mind,  and 
she  learnt  to  talk  in  a  very  admirable  school. 

"  The  evenings  at  the  flat  in  the  Rue  de 
Fleurus  are  still  remembered  in  Paris." 

He  smiled  to  himself,  as  though  in 
thought  he  had  gone  back  to  those  evenings. 

"  I  wish  I  could  put  before  you  doctor,  the 
charm  of  their  home  life.  There  has  been 


CH.  xvn.  ANNE    PAGE  235 

nothing  like  it  since.  That  sounds  terribly 
middle-aged,  doesn't  it?  I  realize  that  I'm 
growing  old,  when  I  think  of  the  society  of 
twenty  years  ago,  as  incredibly  brilliant  and 
fascinating. 

"  At  any  rate  it  was  composed  of  the  men 
and  women  who  have  since  made  their  mark 
on  our  age.  They  are  well  known  names,  at 
any  rate  to  a  man  like  you  who  interests  him- 
self in  our  countrymen  as  well  as  in  your  own. 

"  Among  the  painters  there  were  Giroux, 
and  Bussieres,  and  Deslon.  All  men  associated 
with  the  Impressionist  movement.  Thouret 
the  novelist,  and  Dacier  the  poet,  were 
intimate  friends.  They  met  Anne  first  at 
Fairholme  Court,  with  me,  and  they  were 
always  devoted  to  her.  Then  there  was 
Matignon  the  critic,  a  fine  old  man,  who 
adored  her.  And  Bellet,  and  Courtois — I 
could  go  on  quoting  indefinitely.  They  had 
a  fiat  in  the  Rue  de  Fleurus,  beautiful  as 
only  Anne  knows  how  to  make  a  home 
beautiful.  It  overlooked  the  Luxembourg 
gardens,  and  was  close  to  my  present  studio. 
I  remember  it  always  full  of  sunshine,  and 
I  can  see  Anne  arranging  the  flowers,  (every 
room  was  full  of  flowers),  and  looking  up 
from  them  to  laugh. 

"  She  was  so  radiantly  happy  it  was  a  joy  to 


236  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xvn. 

see  her.  And  she  grew  so  beautiful.  She 
learnt  to  dress,  of  course.  Beautiful  dress  is 
one  of  her  instincts,  as  you  see  even  now. 
What  a  hostess  she  was !  She  became  the 
fashion  in  our  set, — Rene's  and  mine.  The 
men  raved  about  her.  They  found  piquante, 
that  touch  of  English  shyness  and  modesty 
which  she  combines  so  oddly  with  dignity. 
She  held  a  real  salon,  and  a  very  brilliant 
one  too,  in  the  Rue  de  Fleurus.  Those  were 
her  beaux  jours." 

"  I  can  imagine  it,"  said  the  doctor. 

"That  sort  of  manage  is  only  possible  in 
Paris,"  observed  Frangois.  "  Even  there,  it's 
not  without  its  difficulties.  But  she  sur- 
mounted them  by  her  very  unconsciousness 
and  simplicity.  Some  of  the  women  even, 
were  won  over.  One  or  two  of  the  wives  of 
men  in  Rent's  circle  were  her  intimate  friends. 
They  went  to  her  as  we  all  did,  for  advice  and 
sympathy." 

"Just  as  we  all  go  now  to  be  consoled," 
put  in  Dr.  Dakin. 

"  Precisely.  And  one  of  the  secrets  of  her 
power  of  drawing  confidence,  is  that  Anne  is  by 
nature  a  maternal  woman — a  mother." 

"  That's  the  pity  of  it." 

"  I  agree.  Life  hasn't  given  her  every- 
thing. But  at  least  it  gave  her  three 


CH.  xvii.  ANNE    PAGE  237 

unforgetable  years,  and  a  memory  which  has 
kept  her  sweet  and  fresh  and  young  as  in  her 
girlhood  she  could  never  have  been." 

"  And  she  went  away,"  said  the  doctor 
gently,  "  in  the  midst  of  her  happiness  ?  " 

"  She  went  away  quietly,  simply,  with  no 
fuss,  as  she  does  everything.  With  no  fare- 
well scene,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  She  left 
him  a  letter,  and  with  me,  a  message.  The 
hardest  I  ever  had  to  deliver  in  my  life." 

Fontenelle  got  up,  and  threw  the  end  of 
his  cigarette  into  the  fire. 

"  And  then  she  travelled  ?  " 

"  For  years.  When  they  were  together, 
she  and  Dampierre  went  to  Italy  every  spring. 
I  believe  she  has  gone  over  all  the  old  ground 
since  then.  She  seems  to  have  gone  half  over 
Europe  as  well.  I  used  to  get  letters  from 
Athens,  from  Constantinople,  from  Naples, 
Rome,  Florence.  Fortunately  she  was  a  rich 
woman,  able  to  work  off  her  restlessness." 

He  laughed  a  little.  "  That  was  one  of 
her  adorable  simplicities.  It  never  occurred 
to  her  that  the  possession  of  a  fortune  made 
any  difference  to  the  situation.  She  only 
looked  upon  it  as  a  means  of  independence  and 
freedom  when  her  happiness  should  come  to 
an  end.  And  she  was  right.  Ren6  never 
thought  of  it  either,  In  some  ways  he  was  as 


238  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xvn. 

childlike  and  as  unworldly  a  creature  as  she. 
He  had  inherited  a  fairly  good  income  from  his 
father.  He  would  not  have  known  what  to  do 
with  more.  That's  Anne  Page's  story,  doctor. 
I  don't  know  how  it  strikes  an  Englishman, 
but  to  me  it  seems  rather  a  wonderful  one 
because  of  the  type  of  woman  to  whom  it 
belongs." 

"Yes,"  returned  Dr.  Dakin  meditatively. 
"One  would  have  thought  that  convention,  or 
religious  prejudice " 

Fontenelle  laughed.  "  She  is  untouched 
by  either.  Cest  un  vrai  caractere,  cette  chere 
Anne  Page!  Until  she  came  to  Paris,  she 
hadn't  mixed  enough  with  the  world  even  to 
know  its  conventions.  Religion  ?  Well,  '  by 
their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them,'  and  if  the 
fruits  of  the  Spirit  are  faith  and  hope,  and 
the  charity  which  surfers  long  and  is  kind, 
there  never  was  a  woman  who  has  more 
absolutely  attained  the  results  of  religion.  It's 
not  a  satisfactory  result  for  the  moralist,  I 
admit,"  he  added. 

"  But  in  this  very  interesting  and  amazing 
world,  the  moralists  don't  have  it  all  their  own 
way,"  observed  the  doctor. 

"So  far  as  creeds  and  dogmas  are  con- 
cerned, Anne  is  a  born  pagan.  It  is  not 
that  she  has  examined  and  rejected  them. 


CH.  xvn.  ANNE   PAGE  239 

They  simply  don't  appeal  to  her  nature.  When 
as  young  men  we  first  met  her,  we  called  her 
Flora,  amongst  ourselves.  She  struck  us 
even  then  as  a  curious  blend  of  Madonna  and 
goddess.  And  the  physical  appearance  has 
a  mental  and  moral  parallel.  I  remember 
once  when  I  wanted  to  tease  her,  I  asked  what 
had  become  of  her  religion. 

"  She  looked  at  me  with  those  childlike  eyes 
of  hers  and  said  : 

"  '  I  never  had  any, — in  the  sense  you 
mean.  By  being  with  Rene"  I'm  not  hurting 
any  one.  And  it's  only  by  hurting  people  one 
does  wrong.' 

"  Then — I  admit  it  was  cruel  of  me,  but 
I  was  curious — I  said  that  some  people  had 
refrained  from  doing  what  she  had  done,  for 
the  sake  of  example  to  humanity.  Her  reply 
was  '  But  apart  from  religion,  people  haven't 
yet  decided  what  is  the  right  way  to  arrange 
their  lives.' ' 

Dr.  Dakin  smiled.  "In  view  of  the  modern 
ferment  of  opinion,  she  was  right  there." 

Frangois  pushed  his  chair  back,  with  a 
movement  of  impatience. 

"  Well  now  what's  to  be  done  ?  The  tale 
of  her  incredibly  evil  past  will  spread  I  sup- 
pose, and  Dymfield  will  become  impossible." 

He  laughed  rather  savagely. 


240  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xvn. 

"  It's  quite  an  amusing  notion  that  scandal 
should  attack  a  gentle  woman  of  Anne's  age. 
Yet  I  imagine  that  few  of  the  natives  of  a 
village  possess  a  sense  of  humour." 

"  I  don't  think  the  story  will  spread.  The 
vicar  as  I  told  you  is  absolutely  incredulous, 
and  no  one  else  has  heard  it." 

"  Except  Madame  ?  "  hinted  Frangois.  "  I 
don't  wish  to  suggest  an  unkindness.  But 
women,  you  understand  ?  A  whisper  to  a 
dear  friend — hein  ?  " 

"  My  wife  is  devoted  to  Miss  Page,"  said 
the  doctor  shortly.  "  I  shall  warn  her ;  but 
she  will  be  indignant  at  the  mere  suggestion  of 
betrayal." 

"  Parfaitement !  "  returned  Frangois  with  a 
bow.  "  Pardon  me.  You  will  probably  find 
Miss  Page  in  Paris,"  he  added.  "She  was 
expected  to-day." 

"  So  much  the  better.  It  will  be  a  great 
pleasure." 

The  doctor  rose.  "  Good-night,"  he  said, 
extending  his  hand  cordially.  "  And  thank  you 
for  this  talk.  Perhaps  if  you  decide  not  to  go 
to  Egypt,  you  will  do  us  the  honour  of  staying 
with  us  a  little  later,  when  my  wife  comes  back  ? 
Our  friendship  for  Miss  Page  makes  a  bond 
between  us,"  he  added,  in  his  pleasant  sincere 
voice. 


CH.  xvn.  ANNE  PAGE  241 

Frangois  met  his  eyes  for  an  instant.  They 
were  full  of  the  kindliness  and  instinctive  liking 
he  felt  for  the  man  he  was  addressing. 

"  A  thousand  thanks.  But  I  think  I  am 
almost  certain  to  go  to  Egypt." 

"Another  time  then.  I  shall  only  say 
au  revoir" 

Frangois  followed  him  into  the  hall,  and 
watched  him  step  into  a  hansom,  and  give  the 
address  of  his  hotel  to  the  driver. 

When  he  turned  away,  there  was  a  curious 
expression  about  his  lips,  which  presently 
deepened  into  a  smile  that  was  partly  cynicism, 
partly  something  else. 

He  was  reflecting  on  the  curious  encounters 
liable  to  befall  a  man  like  himself.  He  thought 
of  the  evening's  conversation,  and  smiled  again 
to  think  how  completely  till  this  moment  he 
had  failed  to  realize  the  humour  of  its  friendly 
nature. 

"  Oest  un  honnfoe  homme.  II  ne  m&ritait 
pas  fa " 

Frangois  dismissed  the  subject  of  Dr. 
Dakin's  deserts  with  a  mental  shrug,  as  he 
went  upstairs  to  his  room,  in  which  a  bright 
fire  was  burning. 


XVIII 

FRANCOIS  drew  up  an  armchair  close  to  the 
blaze,  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

His  thoughts  at  first  dwelt  upon  the  man 
with  whom  he  had  just  parted  —  a  loyal 
straight,  good  fellow  if  ever  there  was  one,  he 
decided.  The  verdict  was  accompanied  by  a 
greater  sense  of  self-dissatisfaction,  a  sensation 
nearer  to  shame  and  regret  that  he  had  for 
years  experienced. 

It  was  an  uncomfortable  attitude  of  mind, 
and  with  characteristic  love  of  ease,  he 
hastened  to  obliterate  it,  by  turning  his  atten- 
tion elsewhere. 

His  conversation  with  the  doctor  had 
conjured  up  so  many  mental  pictures  of  the 
past,  that  he  scarcely  knew  which  of  them 
to  examine  first. 

The  salon  in  Anne  Page's  flat,  rose  before 
him.  With  the  retentive  memory  of  a  painter, 
Frangois  recalled  minutely  every  detail  of  the 
charming  room. 

He  saw  the  deep-red  curtains  drawn  across 
242 


CH,  xvm.          ANNE   PAGE  243 

the  three  windows,  the  rose-coloured  carpet, 
the  lights  shining  like  stars  between  the  flowers. 
He  saw  Anne  standing  near  the  table  at  which 
coffee  was  served,  receiving  her  guests  with 
her  lovely  smile,  and  eager  words  of  welcome. 

He  remembered  to  the  smallest  detail  of 
lace  and  trimming,  a  dress  she  often  wore  in 
the  evening,  a  gown  of  purple  silk  which  suited 
so  admirably,  her  hair  and  the  soft  whiteness 
of  her  neck. 

Giroux  and  Bussieres  were  talking  to  her, 
and  he  watched  with  amusement  their  excited 
faces,  and  vehement  gestures. 

It  was  the  evening  after  Rene  had  shown 
his  new  pictures. 

There  had  been  a  crowd  of  his  friends  in 
the  studio  all  the  afternoon ;  a  crowd  of  eager 
interested  men  and  women,  standing  before 
the  canvases  now  so  well  known,  so  greatly 
prized. 

Bussieres  and  Giroux  he  knew  were  talk- 
ing of  the  latest  picture,  his  masterpiece — the 
famous  picture  of  the  lady  in  the  green  dress, 
leaning  back  upon  the  sofa. 

Fran9ois  looked  round  the  room  already 
filled  with  people. 

He  saw  the  white  head  of  Matignon  the 
critic,  towering  above  the  rest.  He  saw  the 
dark  alert  face  of  Thouret  bent  towards 


244  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xvm. 

Madame  Valory,  the  painter  of  pastels  deli- 
cate and  fragile  as  herself.  He  saw  Courtois 
the  sculptor,  in  animated  discussion  with  Bellet 
the  new  poet  of  audacities  in  rhythm.  He 
heard  Rene's  sudden  amused  laugh,  and  turned 
to  look  at  him,  as  he  moved  from  one  group 
to  the  other,  a  little  flushed  and  excited,  his 
fair  hair  ruffled,  his  slim  yet  athletic  figure 
suggesting  the  Englishman  of  sport  and  open- 
air  pastimes,  rather  than  the  brilliant  French 
painter  he  had  even  then  become. 

Conspicuous  among  the  crowd  was  the 
lady  whose  portrait  he  had  recently  painted. 

Blanche  Aubriot  was  the  wife  of  an  elderly 
rou6t  who  regarded  her  very  pronounced 
flirtations  with  an  indifference  equal  to  that 
which  she  on  her  side  extended  towards  his 
infidelities. 

She  was  a  beautiful  young  woman  of  two 
or  three  and  twenty,  childless,  soulless,  and 
much  admired. 

To-night  she  wore  the  green  dress  of  the 
picture,  and  held  her  court  with  her  usual 
piquante  vivacity. 

Frangois  regarding  the  scene  with  critical 
and  observant  eyes,  noticed  how  frequently 
her  glance  wandered  in  Rene's  direction,  and 
with  amusement,  her  oft-repeated  efforts  to 
attract  his  attention. 


en.  xvm.          ANNE    PAGE  245 

His  own  eyes  turned  again  to  Anne,  where 
she  stood  surrounded  by  friends,  laughing  and 
talking. 

He  watched  her  to-night  with  peculiar 
admiration. 

Curiously  enough  Dampierre  had  never 
painted  her. 

Once  soon  after  they  had  settled  in  their 
apartment,  Frangois  had  spoken  of  it  as  a 
foregone  conclusion. 

"  She's  just  your  type — the  essentially 
feminine  type  of  woman." 

Greatly  to  his  surprise,  Rene  shook  his 
head. 

" C 'est  impossible"  he  said  conclusively. 

Frangois  wondered,  but  the  conversation 
turned  immediately  upon  other  matters,  and 
it  was  only  just  before  he  took  leave,  when 
Anne  was  out  of  the  room,  that  his  friend 
took  a  book  from  one  of  the  shelves,  and 
turning  over  the  leaves,  handed  it  to  him  at 
an  open  page. 

"  That's  why  I  can't  paint  her,"  he  said. 

The  poem  he  touched  with  his  forefinger 
was  Browning's  song  beginning — 

"  Nay,  but  you  who  do  not  love  her, 
Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress  f  " 

Frangois  read  it  aloud,  and  came  to  the  last 
few  lines — 


246  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xvm. 

u  Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 
If  earth  holds  aright — speak  truth — above  her? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this,  I  toiich 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much  !  " 

""For  praise,  read  paint"  said  Rene,  taking 
the  book  and  closing  it.  "  It's  the  same  thing. 
You're  the  man  to  paint  her.  Ask  her  to  sit 
for  you." 

Fran9ois  had  always  delayed  to  avail  himself 
of  the  suggestion. 

To-night  he  determined  to  delay  no  longer. 
Crossing  the  room,  he  joined  the  little  group 
round  Anne,  and  presently  drew  her  away. 

"  I  haven't  had  a  word  with  you  this  even- 
ing," he  said.  "And  now  you  must  give 'me 
one,  or  even  two.  About  that  portrait.  I  think 
che  time  has  come.  When  will  you  sit  for  me  ?  " 

Even  at  the  moment,  he  was  struck  by  the 
curious  expression  which  crossed  her  face. 

When  afterwards  he  tried  to  analyze  it,  he 
could  only  think  of  the  face  of  a  woman  who 
expecting  a  signal  of  some  sort,  had  heard,  and 
accepted  it. 

"  When  would  you  like  me  to  come  ?  "  she 
asked. 

She  was  standing  at  the  end  of  the  room  by 
the  fire,  and  as  she  raised  her  eyes,  Fran9ois 
saw  in  them  the  look  which  did  not  escape 
him  when  he  came  to  paint  them. 


en.  xvin.  ANNE   PAGE  247 

They  discussed  the  matter  for  a  few 
moments.  Various  engagements  on  both  sides 
postponed  the  first  sitting  for  a  fortnight,  but 
a  day  was  finally  arranged. 

"  How  long  will  it  take  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

He  made  a  gesture  of  ignorance.  "  I  don't 
know.  A  month  perhaps,  with  luck.  But  this 
is  going  to  be  my  masterpiece,  Anne.  I  shall 
succeed,  or  perish  in  the  attempt.  Have  you 
got  that  flowered  gown  you  used  to  wear  in 
the  garden  at  Dymfield?  I  suppose  not.  Yes? 
Tres  bien  !  Bring  it,  I  want  to  try  an  effect." 

He  was  interrupted  by  Rene,  who  came  up 
at  the  moment,  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  on 
Anne's  arm. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  and  talk  to  Matignon, 
dear,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  He's  always 
bad  tempered  if  you  don't  pay  him  enough 
attention.  Go  and  make  love  to  the  old  boy." 

A  vague  uneasiness  passed  from  Francois's 
mind  at  the  sound  of  his  friend's  voice,  always 
gentle  when  he  spoke  to  Anne.  It  was  even 
gentler  than  usual  now,  and  he  did  not  fail  to 
notice  the  caress  of  his  hand  on  her  sleeve, 
nor  the  look  of  happy  understanding  between 
them,  as  she  moved  away,  smiling,  to  obey  him. 

"  I'm  arranging  for  her  to  come  and  pose. 
I'm  going  to  begin  the  picture  at  once,"  he 
said. 


248  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xvm. 

"Bon  ! "  returned  Rene,  his  face  lighting 
up.  "  You've  taken  your  time  about  it." 

"  One  hesitates  to  begin  one's  masterpiece," 
Frangois  retorted.  "  You  who  do  nothing  else, 
except  finish  them,  ought  to  have  compassion 
on  the  weaker  brethren." 

Rene"  made  a  laughing  gesture  of  menace. 

"  Allans,  mes  amis  .  .  .  mats  calmez-vous 
done ! "  exclaimed  Blanche  Aubriot  at  his 
elbow. 

Frangois  looked  down  at  her  white 
shoulders,  and  experienced  a  momentary  feeling 
of  repugnance  which  passed  into  self-ridicule, 
for  glancing  at  her  indolent  brown  eyes  soft 
as  velvet,  at  her  full  red  lips,  at  her  glossy 
hair,  he  acknowledged  her  beauty. 

"  Come  and  talk  to  me,  Monsieur  Rene/' 
she  urged  with  the  insistence  of  a  spoilt 
child.  "  You're  a  great  man,  I  know,  but  the 
lion  condescends  to  the  mouse  sometimes, 
doesn't  he  ?  " 

Frangois  followed  them  with  his  eyes  as 
they  moved  away  together. 

"If  she  had  said  cat,  I  should  have  found 
no  difficulty  in  reversing  the  parts,"  was  his 
inward  reflection. 

The  fire  had  died  down,  but  as  he  sat 
before  the  smouldering  ashes,  Frangois  was 


CH.  xvm.  ANNE    PAGE  249 

very  far  in  space  and  time  from  the  club  bed- 
room in  which  he  was  dreaming. 

He  was  passing  through  successive  stages 
of  satisfaction  and  despair,  hope  and  baffling 
discouragement,  while  he  painted  Anne's  por- 
trait. After  the  first  fortnight,  she  came  every 
day,  and  every  day  she  was  more  silent. 

He  remembered  this  afterwards.  At  the 
time,  engrossed  heart  and  soul  in  his  picture,  he 
did  not  notice  her  quietude.  He  was  only  half 
consciously  perplexed  by  a  subtle  difference  in 
her  expression  which  he  found  hard  to  recon- 
cile with  his  previous  impression  of  her — a  dif- 
ference which  was  at  once  his  inspiration,  and 
his  despair. 

"  If  only  I  can  get  that,  I  shall  paint  a 
great  picture !  "  he  exclaimed  one  day  involun- 
tarily, breaking  a  long  silence. 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

He  started,  forgetting  that  he  had  spoken 
aloud. 

"  I  don't  know." 

She  smiled  a  little.  "  Then  I'm  afraid  you 
won't  get  it." 

"  But  I  have  !  " 

He  almost  shouted  the  words,  one  after- 
noon a  week  afterwards,  when  she  had  stood 
patiently  almost  as  long  as  the  daylight 
lasted. 


250  AJNJNJb      FALrll  CII.  XVIII. 

She  looked  at  him  with  inquiring  eyes,  as 
he  threw  down  his  brush. 

"  I  won't  touch  it  again  !  It's  there!  It's 
all  right.  Mon  Dieu !  Anne,  do  you  hear 
me  ?  I've  painted  a  great  picture." 

He  came  towards  the  stand,  both  hands 
outstretched,  and  helped  her  down. 

"  Come  and  look  before  the  light  goes," 

he  urged.  "  Why  Anne "  his  triumphant 

tone  changed  abruptly  to  consternation. 
"  You're  not  ill,  dear  ?  You're  trembling  so. 
What  a  brute  I  am  !  I've  kept  you  posing 
too  long.  I  forgot.  Come  and  sit  in  this 
chair.  Here's  a  cushion.  I'll  get  you  some 


water." 


She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  all  right,"  she 
assured  him,  trying  to  smile.  "  I  want  to  see 
the  picture." 

He  turned  the  easel  towards  her,  and  she 
looked  at  it  a  long  time  in  silence. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ? "  asked  Frangois  at  last 
anxiously. 

11  It's  too  good  for  me.  It's  idealized,"  she 
said.  "  But  it's  the  best  thing  you've  ever 
done,  Frangois.  I  congratulate  you.  You're 
right.  It's  your  masterpiece." 

He  felt  a  warm  glow  of  pleasure.  Anne  as 
he  had  often  acknowledged  was  an  admirable 
critic,  instinctively  a  connoisseur,  and  her  life 


CH.  xvm.          ANNE   PAGE  251 

amongst  painters  had  trained  and  sharpened 
her  natural  perception.  Secretly  Frangois 
stood  in  greater  awe  of  Anne's  verdict  on 
his  work,  than  on  that  of  many  of  his  fellow- 
craftsmen. 

"  You  have  suggested  all  the  Dymfield 
garden  in  those  flowers,"  she  said  after  another 
silence. 

"  In  you,"  he  returned  quickly,  wondering 
at  the  tone  in  her  voice. 

"  I'm  going  to  give  you  this,  Anne,"  he 
went  on,  speaking  gaily  to  avert  an  uneasy 
fear.  "  I  hope  you  appreciate  the  compliment. 
I  lay  my  masterpiece  at  your  feet,  and  you  can 
pick  it  up  and  hang  it  in  your  salon,  between 
the  two  long  windows.  That's  the  place  for  it." 

She  turned  slowly  from  the  picture,  and 
her  eyes  met  his,  while  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  can't 
take  it,  Frangois." 

"Why  not?" 

She  leant  back  in  her  chair,  and  a  smile 
so  sad  that  involuntarily  he  turned  away,  came 
creeping  round  her  lips. 

"  Because  I'm  a  woman,"  she  replied. 

He  made  no  reply.  The  meaning  of  her 
words  did  not  escape  him,  but  in  a  moment 
she  translated  them. 

"You've  painted   me   at   the   end   of   my 


252  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xvm. 

beaux  jours"  she  said.  "  Before  they  are  quite 
over — but  at  the  end.  I'm  very  grateful.  But 
I  couldn't  live  with  that  picture,  it  would  be 
too " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Besides, — there's  another  reason,"  she 
added  after  a  further  pause. 

"  What's  this  ? "  asked  Frangois,  suddenly 
taking  a  book  from  the  table.  With  a  sort  of 
blind  haste,  he  strove  to  hinder  her  next  words 
by  snatching  at  any  pretext  to  arrest  them. 

"  It's  a  book  you  lent  me,  nearly  three 
years  ago,  I'm  ashamed  to  say.  When  I  first 
came  to  Paris.  I've  always  forgotten  to  return 
it.  But  to-day,"  she  paused  as  though  her 
mind  were  wandering  away  from  the  present. 
"  To-day  I  remembered  it." 

Frangois  took  it  up. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Maupin.  I  forgot  I'd 
ever  lent  it  to  you." 

"  You  remember  the  story  ?  " 

He  nodded.     "  Of  course." 

"  It's  very  different  from  my  story,  isn't  it  ? 
But  the  way  she  found,  I  had  already  dis- 
covered for  myself  before  I  read  the  book. 
It's  the  right  way.  In  my  case,  the  only  way." 

Frangois  had  just  lighted  a  cigarette.  He 
threw  it  away  with  a  sudden  jerk,  and  looked 
at  her  without  speaking. 


en.  xviii.  ANNE    PAGE  253 

"I'm  going  to-morrow." 

Her  voice  was  steady,  but  quite  colour- 
less. 

"  Rene*,"  stammered  her  friend,  "  Rend  is 
going  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes.  Into  the  country  for  a  few  days, 
for  the  background  of  his  new  picture." 

Frangois  drew  up  a  chair,  and  sat  down 
close  to  her. 

"  Anne,"  he  began  gently,  "  There  hasn't 
been  anything  ?  Any  .  .  .  ? " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Nothing.  But  it's 
coming.  This  has  been  in  my  mind  for  weeks. 
It  was  there  though  I  scarcely  knew  it,  before 
you  wanted  me  to  sit  to  you.  When  you 
asked  me,  I  knew  certainly." 

The  spring  twilight  lingered  in  the  studio, 
and  he  could  still  see  her  face,  white  against 
the  cushion  he  had  put  into  the  chair. 

As  he  listened  to  her  quiet  low  voice,  all 
she  was  saying  seemed  to  him  like  the  illusion 
of  a  dream. 

Anne  to  be  talking  of  leaving  Rene !  It 
was  an  absurd  hallucination  on  his  part  —  a 
trick  of  his  imagination. 

"  But  Rene"  ?  "  he  asked  nevertheless.  "  He 
doesn't  know  ?  Why,  I  saw  him  early  this 
morning,  and  he  spoke  of  you " 

For  the  first  time,  her  voice  trembled,  and 


254  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xvm. 

he  watched  her  slim  hands  travelling  aimlessly 
over  the  frills  on  her  dress. 

"He  doesn't  know,"  she  said.  "  That's 
why  I'm  telling  you."  There  was  a  long 
silence,  and  he  saw  her  fighting  for  composure. 

"  Frangois,"  she  began  at  last  in  a  whisper. 
"  He  won't  understand  at  first.  He'll  think 
me  cruel,  and  wicked  and  inexplicable."  She 
caught  her  breath,  but  went  on  bravely.  "  You 
are  far  sighted  too.  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do,  the  woman  who  will — who  will 

"  He  doesn't  know  it  yet  himself.  He  still 
loves  me.  Now,  to-day.  And  that's  why  I'm 
going.  I  couldn't  bear.  .  .  .  He  must  be  quite 
free.  It  was  only  on  those  terms  I  agreed 

with  myself  to — to "  She  was  shivering 

now  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  words  came  in 
gasps  like  the  words  of  a  dying  woman.  "  It 
has  lasted  for  three  years,  and  I  thought  it 
might  only  be  three  months.  I  have  had 
quite  .  .  .  quite  a  long  life,  Frangois." 

He  turned  away  so  that  he  should  not 
see  her  smile. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  be  coward  enough  to 
spoil  it — for  both  of  us,"  she  went  on  after 
minutes  which  seemed  like  hours.  Frangois 
had  been  mechanically  counting  the  strokes  of 
of  the  clock  which  ticked  maddeningly  in  the 
gloom.  He  had  never  noticed  it  before,  and 


en.  xvin.  ANNE    PAGE  255 

was  seized  with  a  sudden  mad  desire  to  smash 
it  into  fragments. 

"  But  I  want  you, — will  you,  Frangois  ? — 
in  a  little  while,  when  he  will  listen,  to  say 
what  you  can  for  me  ?  " 

He  got  up,  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room,  stumbling  against  the  chairs  in  the  way. 

At  last  he  turned  abruptly,  and  stood  before 
her. 

"Must  you,  Anne?"  His  voice  was  an 
entreaty.  It  shook  almost  as  much  as  her 
own. 

She  got  up  slowly,  and  gave  him  both 
hands. 

"  Good-bye,  Frangois." 

He  held  them  close,  without  speaking. 

"  I  shall  write  to  you,"  she  said,  "  — later 
on.  I'm  going  to  be  a  great  traveller.  You 
will  hear  of  me  from — from  all  sorts  of 
wonderful  places.  And  I  shall  see  you  again, 
my  dear  friend.  But  I  don't  think  I  shall 

ever  see "  she  stopped,  and  he  felt  her 

hands  shaking  in  his. 

"  Anne  ! "  he  implored.     "  Don't  go." 

"  Don't  say  anything  more,"  she  implored. 
"  I  have  to  get  through  the  evening.  It's  our 
— last.  So  you  see  it  must  be  quite — It  must 
be  quite  a  happy " 

She  stretched  out  a  trembling  hand  for  her 


256  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xvm. 

cloak,  and  he  wrapped  it  round  her,  fastening 
it  for  her  as  though  she  were  a  child.  Then 
he  took  her  downstairs,  and  called  a  closed 
fiacre. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  courtyard,  by  the 
door,  he  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulders,  and 
taking  both  her  hands  in  one  of  his,  he  kissed 
them. 

They  were  wet  with  the  tears  she  had 
tried  to  brush  aside. 


XIX 

Two  or  three  mornings  before  the  conversation 
between  Dr.  Dakin  and  Frangois  Fontenelle, 
Anne,  the  peaceful  Anne  of  to-day,  received  by 
the  same  post,  three  letters  which  interested 
her. 

She  knew  the  handwriting  on  the  envelopes 
of  each,  and  hastened  first  to  learn  what  her 
brother  had  to  say.  Hugh,  as  she  had  known 
for  some  months,  was  returning  to  England. 

His  farm  had  prospered,  and  anxious  to 
launch  his  sons,  boys  of  sixteen  and  eighteen, 
in  the  professions  they  had  chosen,  he  had 
determined  to  retire,  and  end  his  days  in  the 
old  country. 

The  letter,  an  affectionate  one,  stated  that 
he  was  already  in  London  where  he  had  taken 
a  furnished  house,  to  give  him  and  his  wife 
time  to  look  round,  and  decide  upon  their 
future  home. 

Anne  must  come  to  see  them  the  moment 
she  returned.  They  were  all  looking  forward 
to  her  visit. 

2S7  s 


258  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xix. 

She  put  down  the  closely  written  pages 
with  an  air  of  content,  and  turned  smiling  to 
the  envelope  inscribed  in  the  large  childish 
characters  which  recalled  Sylvia  Carfax. 

"  MY  DEAREST  DEAR  MlSS  PAGE, 

"I  must  write  to  you  because  I'm  so 
happy  and  excited.  I've  got  splendid  plans. 
Just  yet,  I  can't  tell  even  you  what  they  are, 
because  it's  a  secret  for  the  present.  But  it 
means  a  simply  magnificent  chance  for  me,  and 
of  course  it  has  something  to  do  with  my  work. 
Mother  and  father  will  be  very  angry,  I'm 
afraid,  but  I  can't  help  it.  It's  too  good  to 
lose,  and  one  can't  sacrifice  the  whole  of  one's 
future  because  of  one's  parents.  Besides  later 
on,  they  will  see  how  wise  I've  been.  Oh  dear 
Miss  Page,  when  are  you  coming  back  ?  I 
want  to  see  you  so  much,  because  by  that  time 
everything  will  be  settled,  and  I  can  tell  you 
all  about  it.  I'm  too  excited  to  write  any 
more.  Only  I  want  you  very  badly.  Do,  do 
come  home  soon. 

"  Your  ever  loving 

"  SYLVIA." 

Anne  returned  the  note  to  its  envelope 
with  a  slightly  worried  look. 

What    folly  was    the    child    considering? 


CH.  xix.  ANNE    PAGE  259 

She  must  write  to  her  at  once,  and  insist 
upon  a  full  explanation. 

In  the  meantime  she  opened  the  other 
letter,  which  bore  the  Paris  stamp-mark,  and 
was  evidently  from  Madge  Dakin.  It  was 
very  short,  and  very  incoherent,  but  when 
Anne  raised  her  head  and  let  the  lilac-tinted 
paper  slip  from  her  hand,  her  face  was  rather 
white. 

She  was  at  breakfast  in  her  sitting-room, 
whose  window  overlooked  Rome. 

The  sunshine  flooded  the  room,  and  the 
anemones,  purple,  white  and  scarlet,  in  a  bowl 
placed  on  the  snowy  cloth,  glowed  with  the 
colour  of  jewels. 

The  air  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  violets 
which  almost  covered  a  small  table  near  the 
open  window,  and  outside,  over-arching  the 
city,  the  Roman  sky  was  gloriously,  passionately 
blue. 

Anne  sat  with  her  elbows  on  the  table, 
her  chin  resting  on  her  open  palms,  lost  in 
thought. 

Suddenly  she  rose,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Burks,"  she  said  when  the  maid  appeared, 
"can  you  pack,  and  be  ready  to  start  for 
Paris  to-day  ?  " 

Burks  stared.  "  But  I  thought  we  weren't 
leaving  for  another  month,  ma'am,"  she  gasped. 


26o  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xix. 

"  I  know.  But  I  find  it's  necessary  to  go 
at  once.  Can  you  manage  it  ?  " 

The  maid  beamed  with  satisfaction.  "  It'll 
be  a  rush,  but  I'll  do  it,  ma'am,  and  be 
thankful.  I'm  about  tired  of  foreigners," 
she  added,  alluding  thus  with  a  sniff  of  scorn 
to  the  Italian  cook  with  whom  she  lived  on 
terms  of  ill-concealed  warfare. 

Anne  smiled  absently. 

"  Yes.  You'll  be  glad  to  get  home,  I  dare 
say  Burks,  and  Paris  is  on  the  way.  Please 
give  me  my  writing  things.  I  must  put  off  all 
my  engagements,  and  write  a  hundred  letters, 
so  I  don't  want  to  be  disturbed  this  morning." 

Left  alone,  Anne  re-read  the  letter  which 
had  prompted  her  decision  to  leave  Rome  at 
once.  Short,  hurried  as  it  was,  it  conveyed 
the  misery  of  the  writer  better  than  pages  of 
outpouring,  and  Anne  did  not  need  the  sup- 
plication contained  in  the  last  lines  to  lead  her 
to  any  creature  in  distress. 

"  Poor  little  soul !  Poor  wretched  little 
thing ! "  she  thought,  before  she  forced  herself 
to  attend  to  the  lengthy  correspondence  which 
in  view  of  her  large  circle  of  Roman  friends, 
such  a  hurried  leave-taking  entailed. 

Unwilling  to  hinder  Burks  in  her  work  of 
packing,  she  went  herself  to  post  her  letters, 
and  to  dispatch  the  telegram  which  warned 


CH.  xix.  ANNE   PAGE  261 

Madge  Dakin  of  her  arrival  in  Paris  next 
day. 

While  she  walked  to  the  post-office,  while 
she  mingled  with  the  crowds  in  the  street,  and 
vaguely  heard  the  cries  of  the  flower  vendors, 
the  cracking  of  whips,  the  babel  of  tongues,  her 
thoughts  were  far  away.  Her  friend's  letter 
had  told  her  nothing  definite,  but  Anne  guessed 
the  nature  of  her  trouble. 

Imperceptibly,  from  sadness  and  perplexity 
her  expression  became  stern.  A  passionate 
anger  such  as  for  years  she  had  not  experienced, 
grew  momentarily  stronger. 

"  Always  the  same,"  she  repeated  to  herself. 
"  Cruel,  cynical.  Too  light-minded  to  desire 
anything  strongly.  Selfish  enough  to  gratify 

every  passing  whim "  And  then  her 

thoughts  received  a  sudden  disconcerting 
check. 

What  of  the  years  of  loyal  friendship  he 
had  given  her  ?  How  could  she  forget  his 
tenderness  and  sympathy  at  the  bitterest 
moment  of  her  life  ?  How  ignore  either,  the 
many  kindnesses  difficult  for  a  man  wholly 
cynical,  impossible  for  one  wholly  selfish,  which 
he  had  shown  to  the  down-trodden,  the  beaten, 
the  unsuccessful  in  life's  struggle  ? 

Once  again,  for  the  thousandth  time  she 
recognized  the  complexity  of  every  human 


262  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xix. 

being.  The  baffling  contradictions  ;  good 
interwoven  with  evil,  nobility  with  meanness, 
honour  with  disloyalty.  It  was  the  great 
intricate  puzzle  of  human  nature  she  was  once 
more  considering ;  a  tangle  which  nothing  but 
the  cloak  of  infinite  charity  can  cover.  The 
only  cloak  which  glorifies  and  reveals  what  is 
good  and  strong,  while  in  pity,  in  despairing 
tenderness  it  hides  under  its  ample  folds,  the 
shame,  the  weakness,  the  ugly  scars  of  the 
form  it  both  shelters,  and  defines. 

Anne  sighed  as  she  reached  the  top  of 
the  Spanish  steps,  and  leant  on  the  wall  to 
take  a  last  look  at  the  city  she  loved. 

Overhead,  that  "great  inverted  bowl  we 
call  the  sky,"  here,  deeply  blue,  surpassingly 
beautiful.  Beneath  it,  the  dancing  sunshine 
playing  alike  on  dome  and  pinnacle,  roof  and 
tree,  and  on  the  thousands  of  men  and  women 
in  the  busy  streets.  Men  and  women  hiding 
within  their  breasts  incalculable  heights  and 
depths  of  virtue  and  vice,  actual  or  potential. 
Men  and  women  soon  to  be  covered  by  the 
earth  on  which  they  walked,  to  make  place  for 
another,  yet  essentially  the  same  swarm  of 
human  beings  between  the  same  earth  and  sky, 
still  asking  the  same  questions  under  the  same 
sunshine,  which  laughed,  and  never  replied. 

It  was  the  eternal   puzzle,  the  old   riddle 


ci-i.  xix.  ANNE   PAGE  263 

to  which  through  the  ages  no  solution  has 
been  found. 

Anne  sighed  once  more,  and  then  smiled 
at  the  futility  of  considering  it  again  just  now, 
when  there  was  packing  to  be  done. 

He  maketh  His  sun  to  shine  upon  the  just 
and  upon  the  unjust. 

The  words  slipped  into  her  mind  before 
she  turned  away,  with  a  momentary  sensation 
of  reassurance.  At  least  the  sunshine  fell 
upon  every  one  alike.  Perhaps  it  symbolized 
a  cloak  of  charity  wider  and  larger  than  any 
woven  by  human  minds. 

"Will  Madame  come  upstairs  ?" 

The  maid  re-entered  the  room  in  which 
Anne  had  been  waiting,  and  then  preceded  her 
up  the  staircase  to  a  door  which  she  threw  open. 

A  little  figure  huddled  over  the  fire,  rose 
hastily  as  she  entered,  and  with  incoherent 
words  that  sounded  like  a  cry,  threw  herself 
into  her  arms. 

"  Oh  !  You  are  good  !  You  are  good  ! " 
Madge  repeated,  hiding  her  eyes  like  a  child 
against  the  elder  woman's  arm.  "  I  should 
have  died  if  you  hadn't  come." 

When  at  last  she  drew  herself  away,  and 
looked  at  her  visitor,  Anne  had  to  suppress 
a  start  of  dismay. 


264  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xix. 

She  scarcely  recognized  Madge  Dakin. 

Her  cheeks  were  white  and  sunken,  and 
swollen  with  much  crying.  She  was  pitifully 
thin,  and  her  nervous  hands  strayed  constantly 
about  her  face.  Her  pretty  hair,  generally  so 
carefully  waved  and  tended,  was  screwed  into 
an  untidy  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head.  She 
had  evidently  not  troubled  to  dress  all  day, 
for  she  wore  a  bedroom  wrapper,  whose 
pink  ribbons  she  had  forgotten  to  tie  and 
arrange. 

"  My  dear  child,"  declared  Anne,  "  you  must 
give  me  some  tea.  I'm  dying  for  it,  and  I 
shall  be  speechless  till  I  get  it." 

"  Oh !  I'm  so  sorry.  I  make  it  myself 
generally.  I — forgot  it  this  afternoon." 

Anne  sat  down  in  an  armchair  near  the 
fire,  and  purposely  allowed  her  to  put  on  the 
kettle,  and  make  all  the  preparations  alone. 

A  glance  at  the  room,  a  fairly  large  one, 
from  which  a  bedroom  opened,  showed  that 
her  friend  had  probably  done  nothing  but  cry 
over  the  fire  for  several  days. 

It  was  dusty,  and  littered  with  papers,  books, 
working  materials.  It  looked  untidy,  and  un- 
cared  for. 

There  were  dead  flowers  in  the  vases,  and 
the  curtains  half  drawn,  obscured  the  already 
dying  light  of  a  dull  day. 


CH.  xix.  ANNE    PAGE  265 

When  the  kettle  began  to  boil,  she  rose, 
and  gently  pushed  Madge  into  a  chair. 

She  made  the  tea  herself,  while  in  a  sort  of 
stupor  of  wretchedness,  Mrs.  Dakin  watched 
the  movements  of  her  white  fingers. 

"Now  drink  that,  my  child,"  she  said,  putting 
the  cup  and  saucer  into  her  hand. 

"  Have  you  had  any  lunch  ?  " 

Madge  shook  her  head. 

"Then  you  must  eat  a  plateful  of  these 
excellent  biscuits,  and  you  must  begin  at  once." 

She  proceeded  to  drink  her  own  tea,  talking 
about  her  journey,  and  the  slowness  of  the 
trains,  till  watching  the  face  opposite  to  her  she 
saw  a  trace  of  colour  in  the  cheeks. 

"  And  now  what  is  it,  my  dear  ?  "  she  asked 
very  gently,  as  Mrs.  Dakin  pushed  the  cup 
away  from  her. 

For  answer,  Madge  burst  into  a  flood  of 
hopeless  tears. 

Anne  leant  forward  and  took  her  hand. 
"  It's  Francois  Fontenelle,  isn't  it  ?  "  she 
inquired. 

Mrs.  Dakin  raised  her  head,  her  lips  parted 
like  a  baby's. 

"  How  did  you  guess  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Because  I've  known  him  for  a  great  many 
years — very  well." 

There  was  the  faintest  trace  of  bitterness 


266  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xix. 

in  Anne's  tone.  The  sight  of  the  miserable 
bowed  figure  had  revived  some  of  her  resent- 
ment. 

With  a  quick  movement,  Madge  left  her 
chair,  and  knelt  beside  her,  hiding  her  face, 
with  a  childish  gesture,  while  Anne's  arm  went 
round  her  as  tenderly  as  a  mother's. 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  you  everything,"  she 
began  in  a  half-choked  voice.  "  I've  been  so 
wicked,  Miss  Page,  that  I  —  I  can't  believe 
it.  Every  now  and  then  I  think  it's  a  dream/' 
She  shivered  in  Anne's  grasp,  and  sobbed  a 
moment. 

"It  was  my  fault.  I  thought  I  was  so 
bored.  I  thought  I  was  tired  of  Harry — of 
Harry  who  was  always  been  a  thousand  times 
too  good  for  me.  And  so  I — I  flirted  with 
with  him.  Helen  Didier  says  I  threw  myself 
at  his  head.  She's  a  hateful  woman,  and  I 
loathe  her,  but  that's  true,  I  did.  He  never 
cared  for  me.  In  my  heart  I  knew  he  didn't, 
even  when  I  led  him  on  to  make  love  to  me. 
It  was  nothing  but  my  wretched  wicked  vanity. 

Just  because  I  was  bored.     Just  because " 

Her  voice  sank,  and  for  a  moment  Anne  heard 
nothing  but  the  painful  catching  of  her  breath 
in  exhausted  sobs. 

"  And  the  awful  part  was,"  she  stammered 
at  last,  "  that  /didn't  care  either.  I  never  meant 


CH.  xix.  ANNE    PAGE  267 

it  to  be  more  than  a  flirtation.  At  least  I 
think  I  didn't/'  she  added  with  a  pitiful  attempt 

at  perfect  honesty.  "  But "  She  stopped 

short. 

"  But  it  became  more  than  that.  He  was 
your  lover  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head,  and  then  suddenly 
clasped  Anne  with  convulsive  strength. 

"  And  Harry's  coming  to-morrow.  And 
I'm  a  vile  woman  !  " 

She  cried  the  words  aloud  in  a  panic  of 
horror. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Page,  what  shall  I  do.  What 
will  become  of  me  ?  what  shall  I  say  to 
Harry  ?  I  shall  go  mad  ! " 

Anne  laid  her  cheek  on  the  head  that  rested 
against  her  shoulder,  and  was  silent. 

She  understood  what  was  passing  in  the 
soul  of  the  weak,  terror-struck  little  woman. 
The  horror  of  outraged  conventions,  the  night- 
mare conviction  that  she,  the  descendant  of 
generations  of  respectable,  honest  women,  she 
who  had  never  heard  of  the  sin  she  had 
committed,  except  in  accents  of  disdain  or 
horror,  had  become  an  abandoned  creature, 
unfit  for  decent  society,  branded,  defiled, 
eternally  lost. 

Anne's  heart  went  out  to  her  in  passionate 
pity. 


268  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xix. 

"Oh  help  me!  Tell  me  what  to  do," 
Madge  wailed.  "You're  the  only  woman  in 
the  world  I  dared  to  tell,  because " 

The  abrupt  pause,  and  a  nervous  gesture 
betrayed  her,  and  Anne  started  a  little,  over- 
come by  a  sudden  conviction. 

"  Yes.  Why  did  you  tell  me,  my  dear  ?  " 
she  asked  quietly. 

"Because,"  began  Madge  hurriedly,  "you 
are  so  kind,  so  sweet,  I  felt " 

"  That  wasn't  the  only  reason." 

"  No!  "  she  cried  with  sudden  recklessness. 
11  It  wasn't.  It's  because  I  heard  that  you — 
that  you — Helen  Didier  found  it  out.  She 
never  rested.  And  then  I  asked — him,  and  he 
said  I  was  never  to  mention  your  name  to  her. 
But  she  found  out  all  about  it,  on  the  pretence 
that  it  was  you  who  had  corrupted  my  mind, 
and  made  me  what  she  calls  fast.  And  so " 

"And  so  you  thought  you  might  confess  to 
a  fellow  sinner  ?  " 

Anne's  cheek  still  rested  on  Madge's  hair, 
and  over  her  head,  her  eyes  smiled  very 
quietly  into  the  fire. 

Madge  was  silent. 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  utterly  despise  me," 
she  murmured  at  last,  in  a  low  voice. 

"He  has  gone?"  asked  Anne  after  a 
moment.  "  You  sent  him  away  ?  " 


CH.  xix.  ANNE    PAGE  269 

"  He  came  on  Monday — two  or  three  days 
ago.  I've  forgotten  when."  She  made  a  dis- 
tracted gesture.  "  Until — until  just  lately,  it 
was  all  right.  We  were  not — not " 

"  Not  lovers,"  said  Anne,  finishing  the 
sentence  for  her  in  an  even  voice. 

"Well,  he  came.  And  by  that  time  I'd 
come  to  my  senses,  and  to  all  this  awful 
misery.  He's  very  kind,"  she  went  on  with 
a  sort  of  surprise,  as  a  child  might  speak  of 
the  unexpected  clemency  of  some  grown-up 
person.  "  He  said  he  didn't  want  to  make 
me  unhappy,  and  if  I  pleased  it  should  all  be 
at  an  end,  and  he  would  go  away.  So  he 
went.  But  Harry's  coming  to-morrow,  and  I 
daren't  meet  him.  I  daren't  look  at  him. 
It's  awful — awful!  I  would  kill  myself, — 
but  I  daren't  do  that  either." 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  and  sank  back 
in  her  chair,  exhausted  and  shaking  ;  her 
eyes  fixed  on  Anne  were  the  eyes  of  a  little 
hunted  animal. 

All  the  terror  of  the  gulf  she  had  put 
between  herself  and  respectable  women,  all 
the  horror  of  feeling  herself  dtclasste  outside 
the  pale  of  moral  virtue,  filled  her  conventional 
little  soul.  It  outweighed  the  sense  of  her 
personal  disloyalty ;  it  was  greater  than  her 
sense  of  wanton  treachery  towards  her  husband. 


270  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xix. 

She  was  no  longer  a  respectable  woman,  and 
in  that  fact  lay  the  sting. 

Anne  leant  towards  her.  "  You  haven't 
told  Harry  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  don't." 

Madge  stared  at  her  incredulously.  "  But — 
but  look  at  me  ! "  she  stammered.  "  He'll  see. 
He'd  guess,  even  if  I  don't  tell  him.  I  can't 
stop  crying.  I  can't — help  it." 

While  she  spoke  the  tears  were  running 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  Yes,  you  can.  You  can  pull  yourself 
together.  He  expects  to  find  you  ill,  but  you 
can  meet  him  with  a  bright  face — for  his  sake." 

"  For  his  sake  ?  "  repeated  Madge. 

"  Yes.  Think  of  him  a  little,  my  dear, 
and  forget  yourself." 

"  You  mean  he  would  never  forgive  me  ? 
Never  take  me  back  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  know  he  would.  He 
loves  you.  You  would  never  hear  a  word  of 
reproach  from  his  lips.  Your  husband  is  a 
fine  man,  Madge,  and  a  generous  one — and 
a  gentleman." 

"  Yes,  he  is !  He  is ! "  she  returned  eagerly. 
"He  would  forgive  me,  and  I  ought  to  tell 
him.  I  should  never  have  a  happy  moment 
if  I  didn't.  My  life  would  be  spoilt." 


en.  xix.  ANNE    PAGE  271 

"  And  what  about  his  ? "  asked  Anne 
quietly. 

Madge  gazed  at  her.  "  You  mean  he- 
he  wouldn't  forget  it  ?  " 

Anne  answered  with  a  curious  smile. 

"You  don't  understand  much  about  men, 
my  little  Madge,"  she  said.  "  When  they  love, 
their  instinct  of  possession  is  stronger  than 
anything  you  can  guess.  It's  bound  up  with 
a  thousand  forces  from  primitive  barbarous 
times.  It  may  be  unreasonable  and  savage, 
but  it's  there.  A  generous  man  forgives,  and 
even  tries  to  understand.  But  the  wound 
remains,  and  it  rankles  in  spite  of  him.  Have 
you  the  right  to  inflict  such  a  wound  ?  The 
wrong  is  yours.  You  should  be  the  only  one 
to  suffer." 

"  But  I  shall  suffer,"  broke  in  Madge. 
"  And  much  more,  if  I  feel  I'm  deceiving  him." 

"  Then  accept  the  extra  suffering,  and  bear 
it  alone,"  returned  Anne  quickly.  "  One  pays 
for  everything,  Madge.  Is  it  fair  to  call  upon 
some  one  else  to  share  the  expenses  ? " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  If  you  had  married — afterwards,  I  mean," 
said  Madge  hesitatingly,  "  wouldn't  you  have 
told  your  husband  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  question  of  my  marriage," 
answered  Anne  rather  painfully.  "  But  if  your 


272  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xix. 

circumstances  were  mine,"  she  added  after  a 
moment,  "  I  should  act  as  I  advise  you  to  act." 

Madge's  grasp  on  her  hand  tightened,  but 
she  did  not  speak. 

"  Go  back  and  be  a  good  wife  to  him," 
Anne  went  on.  "  My  dear,"  she  said  sadly, 
"  you  don't  know  your  blessings.  You  have 
married  a  man  with  a  faithful  steadfast  nature. 
His  love  will  never  fail  you,  and  in  that, 
thousands  of  women  might  envy  you.  All 
the  material  for  happiness  is  within  your  reach. 
Happiness  for  the  lack  of  which  many  women 
starve  all  their  days.  It  never  comes  to  them. 
It's  never  offered.  And  if  they  can't  bear  to 
be  utterly  without  the  joy  of  love,  before  the 
earth  covers  them,  they  have  to  take  it  at  a 
great  price." 

Her  smile  brought  the  tears  again  to 
Madge's  eyes. 

"Such  a  price,  my  dear  little  Madge,  as 
I'm  glad  you  know  nothing  about." 

"  Dear  Miss  Page  !  "  she  whispered.  A 
moment's  half-awed  revelation  came  to  her  of 
all  that  her  friend's  words  implied.  In  the 
light  of  it,  her  own  fears  and  regrets,  her  whole 
mental  attitude  towards  the  past,  later  as  well 
as  immediate,  seemed  incredibly  petty,  mean, 
and  trivial.  She  was  ashamed  with  a  nobler 
less  selfish  shame  than  she  had  ever  experienced. 


CH.  xix.  ANNE   PAGE  273 

Her  cheeks  burnt,  and  her  tears  ceased  to 
flow. 

"  Oh !  I've  been  a  beast !  "  she  cried  involun- 
tarily. "  I've  always  been  so  selfish  and  hateful 
to  Harry.  I've  taken  everything  as  my  right. 
I've  never  thought  of  any  one  but  myself.  I've 
never  thought  of  the  lives  of  other  women. 
You  are  right.  It  would  only  be  one  more 
selfishness  to  tell  him.  I  won't.  I'll  love  him 
instead." 

"  Do  that,  my  dear,  and  you'll  make  him  the 
happiest  of  men,"  returned  Anne  simply.  "  And 
don't  refuse  him  children,  Madge,"  she  added 
softly.  "  You  owe  him  that.  Besides,  you're 
refusing  the  greatest  happiness  for  yourself. 
The  blessing  that  women — women  like  me,  can 
never  have.  That's  part  of  the  price,  you  see. 
Not  the  least  part  of  the  price,"  she  added  as 
though  to  herself. 

She  rose,  and  Madge  stood  up  too,  still 
holding  her  hand. 

The  firelight  fell  on  Anne's  face,  and  the 
younger  woman  looked  at  her  as  though  she 
had  never  seen  her  before, — with  a  tender 
surprised  admiration. 

"  You  are  so  beautiful ! "  she  exclaimed 
suddenly. 

The  first  smile  Anne  had  seen  came  to 
her  lips. 

T 


274  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xix. 

"  I  shall  pray  that  my  first  baby  may  have 
eyes  just  like  yours,"  she  said,  almost  gaily. 
"And  hair  like  your  lovely  hair — when  she's 
a  little  older." 

Anne  laughed.  "It  used  to  be  brown. 
It  went  white  very  quickly — in  three  months." 

As  she  glanced  into  the  mirror  above  the 
fireplace,  she  thought  suddenly  of  Frangois's 
portrait  with  its  mass  of  soft  fair  hair,  coideur 
de  miel ;  couleur  de  poussiere  dorde.  She 
remembered  the  epithets  of  the  painters. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  she  said.  "  To-morrow 
Harry  will  be  here  to  take  care  of  you.  Make 
yourself  look  pretty,  Madge.  Put  on  your 
nicest  frock,  and  do  your  hair  the  way  he  likes, 
high  up,  you  know,  with  little  fluffy  curls 
about.  And  make  the  room  pretty,  dear. 
I'll  order  some  flowers  to  be  sent  round  to- 
night. Lots  of  them,  so  you'll  have  plenty 
to  do  to  arrange  them.  No  more  sitting  by 
the  fire  and  crying,  mind !  No  looking  back. 
Only  look  forward." 

Madge  held  her  tight.  "  Oh  !  you've  given 
me  so  much  courage ! "  she  exclaimed  with  a 
long  sigh  of  relief.  "  You  dearest  of  women. 
I'll  do  everything  you  tell  me." 


XX 

OUTSIDE,  in  the  lighted  street,  Anne  called  a 
cab,  and  gave  the  address  of  the  nearest 
florist. 

Her  thoughts  dwelt  upon  Madge,  as  the 
carriage  rattled  down  the  boulevard. 

"  I'm  scarcely  sorry,"  was  the  outcome  of 
her  grave  reflection.  "  It  will  make  a  woman 
of  her.  She  needed  a  great  shock,  or  a  great 
sorrow  to  take  her  out  of  herself,  and  make 
her  realize  what  it  would  mean  to  lose  her 
husband." 

It  was  only  while  she  was  choosing  flowers 
for  her,  that  the  part  of  Madge's  confession 
which  concerned  herself,  came  back  confusedly 
to  her  mind.  It  gathered  greater  clearness  as 
she  drove  towards  her  hotel,  and  by  the  time 
she  reached  it,  and  was  sitting  by  her  bedroom 
fire  after  dinner,  she  found  herself  wondering 
what  would  be  the  outcome  of  the  matter. 

That  she  might  be  sure  of  Madge  Dakin, 
her  instinct  satisfied  her.  Yet  the  results 
of  Madame  Didier's  inquiries  would  in  all 

275 


276  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xx. 

probability,  from  other  sources,  reach  Dymfield. 
What  then  ? 

Anne's  thoughts  flitted  from  Mrs.  Carfax 
to  Mrs.  Willcox,  the  solicitor's  wife,  a  lady 
who  was  interested  in  Church  Missions,  and 
Rescue  Homes  for  Fallen  Women.  The 
memory  of  Miss  Goldie,  a  maiden  lady  of 
substantial  means,  and  views  of  life  which  even 
Dymfield  considered  rigid,  came  to  her,  and 
forced  a  smile.  She  saw  her  sitting  in  the 
front  pew  in  church,  her  black  bonnet  with  two 
purple  pansies  upon  it,  tied  tightly  under  her 
chin.  She  saw  her  angular  elbows,  under  the 
short  mantle  of  black  silk  adorned  with  bugle 

o 

trimming.  She  heard  her  rasping  voice,  which 
seldom  softened  even  for  Anne,  who  as  a  rule 
affected  insensibly  the  voices  of  her  neighbours. 

She  remembered  Mr.  Willcox,  stiff,  erect, 
lean-faced  Mr.  Willcox,  loud  in  his  denunciation 
of  the  present  age,  which  he  considered  lax 
and  immoral  to  the  last  degree. 

She  thought  of  the  Vicar,  with  his  bluster- 
ing attempts  at  modernity,  and  his  violently 
expressed  scorn  of  everything  but  muscular 
Christianity  and  common  sense. 

Dymfield  was  the  typical  English  village, 
with  its  types  indigenous  to  the  soil,  firmly 
rooted,  impervious  to  criticism,  profoundly  self- 
satisfied. 


CH.  xx.  ANNE   PAGE  277 

Dymfield  for  Anne  would  be  impossible. 

But  Dymfield  meant  Fairholme  Court,  to 
which  her  heart  was  inextricably  linked.  The 
garden  that  she  had  planted,  the  garden  that 
was  full  of  fragrant  memories  of  the  blossom- 
ing time  of  her  life.  The  bare  idea  of  leaving- 
it  sent  a  pang  of  desolation  to  her  heart. 

She  got  up  and  began  to  walk  restlessly 
about  the  room. 

The  absurdity  of  such  an  outcome  of 
malicious  gossip,  struck  her  with  a  pathetic 
desire  to  laugh. 

"  After  all  these  years !  At  my  age,"  she 
murmured. 

She  thought  of  her  three  years  of  happiness, 
the  little  space  of  time  which  had  opened  like 
a  flower  in  her  grey  life,  and  wondered  pitifully 
why  any  one  should  grudge  it  to  her.  But 
most  of  all,  she  shrank  from  the  thought  that 
people  should  talk  about  it.  It  had  been  for 
so  many  years  her  secret  possession,  the 
memory  that  had  sweetened  all  her  later  days. 

It  would  be  insupportable  to  know  that 
her  acquaintances  were  gossiping  about  her. 
About  her  and  Rene. 

A  painful  flush  rose  to  her  face  as  she  sat 
down  again  by  the  fire. 

After  her  talk  with  Madge  Dakin,  her 
old  life  seemed  too  near.  She  thought  of  the 


278  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xx. 

parting  with  Rend  in  the  morning — the  morning 
he  left  her  for  his  three  days'  work  at  Fon- 
tainebleau. 

The  agony  of  making  that  parting  a  light 
one !  She  remembered  that  he  turned  at  the 
door,  and  came  back  to  kiss  her  again.  The 
sun  was  on  his  hair,  as  he  crossed  the  room. 

Involuntarily  to-night,  twenty  years  after 
the  words  were  spoken,  Anne  put  her  hands 
over  her  ears,  that  she  might  not  hear  his 
voice.  But  she  knew  what  he  had  said.  She 
remembered  how,  when  he  was  gone,  her 
resolution  wavered. 

Without  question  he  loved  her  still. 
Wasn't  it  too  soon  ?  Might  she  not  stay  a 
little  longer  ?  Just  a  little  while  longer  ? 
And  then  the  bonne  had  brought  the  letters 
of  the  second  post,  and  among  them  there 
was  one  for  Rene  in  a  handwriting  she 
knew.  Within  the  past  month  they  had  been 
coming  very  often,  these  letters.  Lately,  every 
day. 

She  remembered  how  the  sunshine  had 
streamed  upon  the  envelope  at  which  she  sat 
staring,  till  at  last  she  moved  to  make  her 
preparations. 

Then  the  long  train  journey,  and  the  agony 
which  feared  to  betray  itself  in  some  insane 
fashion  which  might  cause  her  to  be  stopped 


CH.  xx.  ANNE    PAGE  279 

— forcibly  prevented  from  reaching  her  desti- 
nation. 

She  wanted  to  shriek  aloud,  to  rave  and 
cry,  like  the  madwoman  she  half  feared  she 
might  in  fact  have  become. 

Of  the  next  few  weeks  she  recalled  nothing 
but  a  confused  nightmare  impression  of  un- 
familiar rooms,  strange  faces,  strange  voices. 
Of  people  who  for  some  mad  reason  were 
going  about  as  usual,  occupied  with  the 
ordinary  business  of  life ;  talking,  laughing, 
eating  and  drinking,  unmoved,  unconcerned. 

One  book  on  every  hotel  table  drew  her 
like  a  magnet.  She  would  sit  down  anywhere 
with  a  Bradshaw  before  her,  and  at  once, 
mechanically  plan  her  journey  back  to  Paris. 

Over  and  over  again,  she  looked  out  trains, 
studied  connections,  pictured  the  moment  of 
her  arrival. 

It  would  be  tea-time.  The  lamps  just  lit. 
Rene*  sitting  by  the  fire — Rene"  leaping  to  his 
feet  to  meet  her. 

Or  it  would  be  early  morning.  She  would 
open  his  bedroom  door  softly  .  .  . 

And  then  the  realization  of  her  madness ; 
more  sleepless  nights,  fresh  strange  hotels,  new 
cities  up  and  down  whose  streets  she  wandered 
wondering  why  she  should  be  there,  why  she 
should  enter  one  building  rather  than  another, 


280  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xx. 

why  the  day  never  passed,  and  when  the 
night  came,  thinking  would  God  that  it  were 
morning. 

So  terribly  near  seemed  her  past  torture, 
that  with  all  her  strength  Anne  tried  to  stem 
the  flood  of  reminiscence. 

Thank  God,  little  Madge  Dakin  had  never 
known,  would  never  know,  misery  such  as 
hers !  In  the  midst  of  her  whirl  of  memories 
Anne  gratefully  considered  this. 

With  an  effort  at  diversion,  she  tried  to 
recall  the  names  of  the  cities  in  which  she 
stayed,  through  which  she  had  passed  during 
the  first  few  months  of  her  exile. 

In  vain.  She  had  only  a  confused  impres- 
sion of  scorching  streets,  of  palm  trees  against 
a  hot  blue  sky  ;  of  seas  hatefully,  mockingly 
calm  and  blue. 

She  was  in  Athens  when  the  news  of  his 
death  reached  her,  and  with  it  a  packet  of 
letters  written  during  the  first  few  weeks 
after  her  departure.  They  were  letters  from 
Rene,  never  sent,  because  she  had  left  no 
address.  Letters  written  in  the  frenzied  hope 
that  some  day  soon  he  must  hear  from  her. 

It  was  then  that  she  tasted  her  first 
moment  of  peace. 

She  remembered  sitting  in  a  little  walled 
garden  somewhere  within  the  city,  and  for  the 


CH.  xx.  ANNE    PAGE  281 

first  time  seeing  that  the  blue  sky  overhead 
was  beautiful. 

She  noticed  the  broad  leaves  of  a  fig-tree 
clambering  upon  the  wall  opposite,  and  listened 
to  the  dripping  of  a  little  stream  which  flowed 
from  a  stone  trough  into  a  well  whose  mouth 
was  fringed  delicately  with  ferns  and  wild 
flowers.  And  for  the  first  time  came  to  her 
a  premonition  of  the  calm  and  peace,  and  even 
happiness  of  her  later  years. 

Her  emotional  life  was  over.  No  man  as 
a  lover  would  ever  exist  for  her  again.  But 
she  had  experienced  the  love  for  which  she 
had  been  willing  to  pay.  She  had  paid,  and 
some  day  she  would  be  content. 

Rene"  dead,  had  become  hers  once  more — 
this  time  for  ever. 

Later  in  the  year  she  met  Frangois  at 
Antibes,  and  heard  calmly,  with  scarcely  a  stab 
of  pain,  what  she  was  prepared  to  hear.  She 
had  been  right  to  go.  But  Rene  had  died 
before  he  ceased  to  love  her. 

Afterwards,  her  true  wander  years  began. 
And  then  at  last,  the  thought  of  the  house  and 
the  garden  at  Dymfield  became  dear  to  her, 
and  she  went  to  them  as  a  child  goes  home. 

Anne  let  her  mind  dwell  gratefully  upon 
the  quiet  happy  years  she  had  spent  at  Dym- 
field. 


282  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xx. 

She  thought  of  her  work  among  her  flowers, 
and  the  paradise  of  beauty  it  had  produced. 
She  thought  of  the  poorer  village  people  whose 
lives  she  knew,  whose  children  she  loved,  to 
whom  for  years  she  had  been  a  friend.  She 
remembered  her  little  plans  for  their  welfare, 
all  the  pleasant  trifles  which  made  up  the  sum 
of  her  daily  existence. 

And  as  she  mused,  came  a  wondering  re- 
cognition of  the  healing  of  time,  the  passing 
of  all  violent  emotion,  whether  of  joy  or  of 
despair. 

From  some  recess  of  her  memory  there 
sprang  the  words  of  an  Eastern  sage,  who  as 
a  motto  true  alike  in  times  of  sorrow  and  times 
of  delight,  told  his  disciple  to  grave  upon  his 
signet  ring,  one  sentence — This  too  will  pass. 


XXI 

ANNE  started  for  London  next  morning,  in- 
tending to  spend  the  night  in  town,  and  devote 
the  next  day  to  her  brother,  and  to  Sylvia 
Carfax,  to  whom  she  had  not  found  time  to  write. 

Early  on  Thursday  morning  she  drove  to 
Carlisle  House. 

The  page  boy  who  took  her  up  in  the  lift, 
indicated  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor,  and 
left  her. 

Anne  knocked,  and  in  response  to  a  voice 
within,  entered  Sylvia's  bedroom. 

It  was  littered  with  cardboard  boxes,  open 
trunks,  dresses,  hats,  raiment  of  all  sorts,  and 
stumbling  over  the  obstacles  in  her  way,  Sylvia 
rushed  towards  her  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

Even  before  she  kissed  her,  Anne  had  time 
to  notice  the  worried  look  on  the  girl's  face, 
which  robbed  it  of  its  youthful  prettiness. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  gasped.  "  I  was  afraid  you 
wouldn't  come  in  time,  and  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do,  or  how  to  get  out  of  it.  Oh  1  I'm  so 
thankful  to  see  you,  Miss  Page.  Sit  down. 

283 


284  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xxi. 

Do  sit  down — if  you  can  find  a  place,"  she 
added,  trying  to  laugh. 

Anne  chose  the  bed  as  the  only  available 
spot. 

"My  dear  child,  what's  the  matter?"  she 
exclaimed.  "  You're  packing,  I  suppose.  Where 
are  you  going  ?  " 

"To — America,"  returned  Sylvia,  with  a 
gulp. 

Anne  looked  at  her,  and  drew  her  down 
beside  her  on  the  bed. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it  from  the  very  begin- 
ning," she  said,  with  quiet  insistence. 

"  Dorit  be  angry  with  me,"  implored  Sylvia, 
her  lips  trembling.  "I  thought  I'd  been  so 
clever  to  arrange  it  all  myself,  without  saying  a 
word  about  it.  But — but  now  I'm  frightened. 
And  my  contract's  signed,  and  I  daren't " 

"  But  what's  it  all  about  ?  Tell  me  clearly, 
Sylvia. 

Sylvia  made  an  effort  to  obey,  and  though 
lucidity  was  not  the  strong  part  of  her  story, 
by  the  end  of  half  an  hour's  questioning  and 
explanation,  Anne  gathered  that  the  girl  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  manager  of  a  third- 
rate  theatrical  company.  The  man  had  tempted 
her  with  the  offer  of  a  "  star  "  part  in  a  musical 
comedy,  and  she  had  signed  a  contract  with 
him  for  America. 


CH.  xxi.  ANNE   PAGE  285 

"  He  said  he  would  make  my  fortune,"  she 
declared.  "He  praised  my  voice  so  much,  and 
told  me  I  was  wonderful,  and  that  I  should 
make  a  great  hit.  But  he  made  me  promise 
not  to  tell  any  one  I  was  going.  He  said  he 
wanted  to  have  the  credit  of  discovering  me, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  knew  mother  and 
father  would  be  horrified,  but  I  thought  it  was 
too  good  a  chance  to  lose,  and  that  I'd  risk 
their  anger.  Because,  if  I  turned  out  a  success, 
and  made  a  lot  of  money,  they  would  be  very 
proud,"  she  added. 

The  instinctive  knowledge  of  human  nature 
shared  by  the  pillars  of  the  Church,  caused 
Anne  despite  her  anxiety,  a  secret  smile. 

"  I  thought  he  was  so  kind,"  Sylvia  went 
on  pitifully,  "  and  he  seemed  so  nice  at  first, 
but  lately  he's  been  different,  and  his  manner 
has  been  so  funny.  He — he  looked  at  me  in 
a  horrid  way  yesterday,"  she  confessed,  "and 
held  my  hand  tight,  and  when  I  tried  to  get 
away,  he  laughed.  But  my  contract's  signed," 
she  declared  with  a  wail  of  despair  in  her 
voice. 

"  Haven't  the  principals  of  this  place  inter- 
fered ? "  Anne  inquired.  "  The  matron,  or 
whoever  it  is  who's  supposed  to  look  after 
you?" 

"They  think  I'm  going  home,"  confessed 


286  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xxi. 

Sylvia  in  an  abashed  voice.  "  I  managed  it 
so  that  they  should  think  so." 

Anne  rose,  and  with  a  terrified  expression, 
the  girl  clung  to  her  hand. 

"Oh!  Miss  Page,"  she  gasped.  "You're 
not  going?  I'm  to  sail  to-morrow  night, 
and " 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  you  silly  little  thing. 
Of  course  you  won't  sail  to-morrow,  nor  any 
other  night.  Give  me  the  address  of  this  man." 

Sylvia  falteringly  repeated  it. 

Anne  wrote  it  down,  and  stooped  to  kiss 
her. 

"  Unpack  all  those  things,  and  put  them 
tidy,"  she  said.  "  I  haven't  time  to  scold  you 
now,  but  I'll  come  back  and  do  it  thoroughly 
this  afternoon." 

The  girl's  look  of  relief  touched  her,  but 
she  could  scarcely  repress  a  smile  as  she  turned 
at  the  door,  to  see  her  standing  like  a  penitent 
baby  amongst  all  her  finery. 

"  I  wonder  what  I  should  have  done  with 
daughters  ?  "  she  asked  herself,  lialf  humorously, 
as  she  stepped  into  a  cab,  outside. 

The  question  was  answered  by  a  smile  and 
a  sigh  that  were  almost  simultaneous. 

Anne  spent  a  busy  morning.  She  went 
first  to  her  solicitor,  and  after  an  hour's  colloquy 
with  him  on  the  case  of  Sylvia  Carfax,  she 


CH.  xxi.  ANNE   PAGE  287 

drove  on  to  her  brother's  house  in  Kensington. 
It  stood  in  a  highly  respectable  square,  and 
was  one  of  the  hundreds  of  dull  substantial 
edifices  which  came  into  existence  during  the 
mid- Victorian  era. 

Anne  rang  the  bell,  and  stood  waiting 
rather  excitedly  under  the  stucco  canopy  sup- 
ported by  pillars. 

Her  present  meeting  with  Hugh  was 
divided  from  the  last,  by  a  period  of  twenty 
years.  It  was  odd  to  remember  how  little  she 
knew  of  this  brother,  her  only  near  relative  in 
the  world.  He  would  be  much  changed,  of 
course. 

A  sudden  vivid  recollection  of  the  last  time 
she  had  met  him,  swept  through  her  mind, 
as  she  stood  waiting  admittance.  How  deso- 
late she  had  been.  How  shy.  How  filled 
with  the  sense  of  being  an  outsider,  a  forgotten 
guest,  unbidden  to  the  banquet  of  life  ! 

The  door  opened,  and  it  was  Hugh  himself 
who  drew  her  over  the  threshold,  and  welcomed 
her  in  the  loud,  kind  voice  she  remembered. 

"  We've  been  waiting  for  you  all  the 
morning,"  he  declared,  "and  I  rushed  down 
when  I  heard  the  bell.  Come  in  and  let  me 
look  at  you !  It's  impossible  to  see  anything 
in  this  wretched  foggy  atmosphere." 

With  his  arm  still  round  her  shoulder,  he 


288  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xxi. 

pushed  open  the  door  of  a  large  room  on  the 
right  of  the  hall. 

"  Here  she  is,  Alice ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  his 
wife  rose  from  a  sofa  near  the  fire. 

"Why  Anne,  what  have  you  done  to 
yourself?  " 

The  words  were  uttered  in  amazement. 
Anne  had  slipped  off  her  heavy  cloak,  and 
stood  laughing  tremulously  as  she  held  her 
brother  by  both  hands,  and  noticed  for  the 
first  time  that  his  hair  was  white,  and  his 
good-natured  bronzed  face  lined  and  wrinkled. 
She  turned  from  him  to  greet  her  sister-in-law. 

The  slim  little  creature  she  remembered  was 
a  stout  matron,  whose  hair  was  just  touched 
with  grey. 

Alice's  start  of  amazement  as  she  gazed 
a  moment  before  she  kissed  her,  was  almost 
comic. 

"  Why,  Anne,  my  dear,  you've  grown  quite 
a  beautiful  woman  ! "  declared  her  brother,  so 
simply  that  the  tears  sprang  to  Anne's  eyes. 

"  She's  grown  younger,  hasn't  she,  Alice  ?  " 
He  looked  at  her  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

Anne  laughed,  and  touched  her  hair.  "  But 

it's  your  white  hair  that And  yet  I  don't 

know.  It's  you  altogether  !  I  never  saw  such 

a  change.  You She  looks  like  a  great 

lady  in  a  French  picture,  doesn't  she,  Alice  ? 


CH.  xxi.  ANNE   PAGE  289 

Court  of  one  of  the  French  kings.     Louis  the 
Sixteenth,  that  sort  of  thing." 

Anne  laughed  again.  "  My  dear  boy.  You 
make  me  embarrassed.  Don't  stare  at  me  so," 
she  begged. 

The  pink  colour  sprang  into  her  cheeks, 
and  the  shy  deprecating  smile  of  Frangois' 
portrait  crept  for  a  moment  to  her  lips. 

"I'm  just  Anne — twenty  years  older  than 
when  you  last  saw  me." 

"Well — it's  magic.  I  give  it  up,"  declared 
Hugh. 

"  Where  are  the  boys  ?  "  she  asked,  turning 
with  a  quick,  eager  movement  to  her  sister-in- 
law.  "  I  want  to  see  my  nephews." 

"  They're  out  to-day.  I'm  so  sorry.  They've 
gone  to  lunch  with  some  relations  of  mine.  But 
you'll  see  them  this  evening.  I  let  them  go 
because  I  knew  that  you  would  want  to  talk  to 
Hugh,"  Alice  answered.  "  You'll  excuse  me  a 
little  while,  won't  you  ?  I  must  speak  to  cook." 

Her  voice — her  tone  of  deference,  marked 
Alice's  recognition  of  the  change  in  the  woman 
she  had  once  regarded  as  insignificant,  a  poor 
meek  creature  to  be  treated  with  compassion 
and  tolerance  ;  and  her  husband's  awkward 
laugh  as  she  closed  the  door,  was  sufficient 
indication  that  her  altered  attitude  was  not 
lost  upon  him. 

u 


290  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xxi. 

"She  can't  help  fussing  about  the  servants. 
Old  habits,  you  know,"  he  said,  turning  to  his 
sister.  "  For  years  she  did  all  the  housework, 
and  she  can't  give  it  up." 

"  But  you've  finished  with  work  now, 
haven't  you,  dear  ?  "  Anne  asked,  as  she  sat 
down  beside  her  brother  on  the  sofa. 

"  Thanks  to  you."  Hugh  glanced  at  her 
gratefully. 

"  That  money  was  just  what  I  wanted, 
Anne.  It  made  me.  I  only  needed  capital 
to  develop  the  farm,  and  it  came  just  at  the 
right  moment.  We  owe  everything  to  your 
generosity,  dear.  And  now  we're  going  to  talk 
business.  You've  put  me  off  in  every  letter, 
but  I  must  insist " 

Anne  laid  her  hand  quickly  on  his  lips.  "  I 
won't  hear  a  word  about  it !  "  she  declared. 
"You're  not  going  to  rob  me  of  one  of  the 
greatest  delights  of  my  life,  Hugh?  The 
power  I  once  had  to  help  my  only  brother? 
You  can't  be  so  unkind !  " 

Her  tone  of  pained  entreaty  made  him 
laugh.  He  kissed  her  again. 

"  You  dear  absurd  woman  !  Why  haven't 
you  married,  Anne  ?  "  he  exclaimed  suddenly. 
"  Some  man's  been  robbed  of  a  wonderful  wife. 
It's  not  fair  of  you  ! " 


CH.  xxi.  ANNE    PAGE  291 

She  smiled.  "Tell  me  about  the  boys," 
she  urged. 

A  maid  entered  to  announce  that  lunch  was 
served,  and  during  the  meal,  the  boys  and  their 
prospects  were  the  chief  topic  of  conversation. 

"  Alice  thinks  them  both  geniuses,  of 
course,"  laughed  her  husband.  "  But  they're 
only  ordinary  youths.  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied 
if  they  can  just  jog  along." 

"  Rupert  has  great  talent,"  his  mother 
assured  Anne.  "  Don't  listen  to  Hugh.  I'm 
sure  he'll  make  a  splendid  architect." 

"  I'm  sure  he  will,"  she  agreed  sympatheti- 
cally. 

"  You  know  we  lost  our  little  girl  ?  "  said 
Alice  softly,  when  they  returned  to  the 
drawing-room. 

Her  voice  suddenly  drew  Anne's  heart 

"  The  boys  are  dears,  of  course,"  she  added. 
"But  I  should  love  to  have  had  a  daughter." 

Anne  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  with  a 
sudden  inspiration,  she  thought  of  Sylvia. 

"  Where's  your  luggage?"  inquired  Hugh. 
"Bless  my  soul,  I'd  forgotten  it!  You're 
going  to  stay  with  us,  Anne,  of  course  ?  " 

"Your  room  is  all  ready,"  Alice  assured 
her  rather  timidly. 

"  I  was  going  back  to-day,  and  coming  to 


292  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xxi. 

you  later.  But  if  I  may  send  for  my  things 
from  the  hotel,  I  should  like  to  stay  a  little 
while.  There's  a  child  I  know,  a  girl  I  must 
help  out  of  a  difficulty,  and  I  find  it  will  take  a 
little  time." 

She  told  them  Sylvia's  story,  and  noticed 
with  satisfaction  that  Alice  seemed  interested. 

"  Poor  silly  child !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  She 
ought  to  be  taken  care  of.  She  ought  to  live 
in  some  nice  family." 

Anne  made  a  mental  note,  but  at  the 
moment  said  nothing. 


XXII 

Two  or  three  days  later,  she  was  back  at  Fair- 
holme  Court. 

Burks  had  been  sent  on  to  join  the  other 
servants,  and  by  the  time  Anne  reached  the 
house,  everything  was  in  its  usual  spotless 
order. 

As  she  sat  looking  into  the  fire  the  after- 
noon following  her  return,  Anne  felt  that  it 
was  good  to  be  home.  She  glanced  round  the 
charming  room,  and  experienced  a  thrill  of 
pleasure.  The  fresh  curtains  at  the  windows 
with  their  rose  garlands,  pleased  her  eye.  The 
inlaid  cabinets,  the  tables,  the  dainty  book- 
cases, shining  and  spotless  from  the  maids' 
energetic  ministrations,  reflected  the  firelight 
at  every  angle.  The  pictures  she  loved  seemed 
even  more  beautiful  for  her  absence,  and  the 
pots  of  lilies  and  hyacinths  about  the  room 
filled  the  air  with  sweet  scent. 

Anne  looked  from  them  to  her  books,  as 
one  glances  from  one  loved  face  to  another. 
It  was  good  to  be  home,  and  she  felt  happy, 

293 


294  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xxn. 

and  at  rest.  Painful  misgivings  had  disap- 
peared, and  her  mind  was  filled  with  contented 
thoughts  of  her  friends. 

From  Sylvia,  inexpressibly  relieved,  she 
had  just  received  a  letter  of  girlish  effusion 
and  gratitude. 

It  was  in  her  hand  as  she  sat  smiling  into 
the  fire,  glad  to  remember  the  girl  as  she  had 
yesterday  seen  her,  pretty  once  more,  gay,  and 
full  of  extravagantly  noble  resolutions  for  the 
future. 

Madge  Dakin,  who  with  her  husband  had 
returned  a  few  days  previously,  she  had  already 
seen. 

She  looked  thin  and  pale  still,  but  Anne 
was  satisfied  to  hear  that  Harry  was  the  dearest 
and  best  of  men,  and  that  she  had  never  been 
so  much  in  love  with  any  one  in  her  life. 

To-day  Anne  found  the  human  comedy 
agreeable.  A  spectacle  to  be  viewed  with  a 
smile  from  which  tears  of  pity  and  sympathy 
were  not  very  far  removed.  But  the  smile 
came  first.  She  reflected  that  she  must  see 
the  Vicar,  and  she  was  making  up  her  mind 
to  leave  the  fireside  for  that  purpose,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  he  was  announced. 

She  rose  quickly  with  an  exclamation  of 
pleasure,  and  went  to  meet  him. 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand,  but  let  it 


CH.  xxn.  ANNE   PAGE  295 

drop  again  immediately,  and  glancing  at  him 
with  half-defined  surprise,  she  saw  that  he 
wore  his  pulpit  expression  of  slightly  pompous 
gravity. 

"Sit  down,"  begged  Anne,  cordially.  "I 
was  just  coming  up  to  see  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Vicar,  dropping 
heavily  into  the  chair  she  indicated. 

"  I  saw  Sylvia  only  yesterday.  She  sent 
many  messages  to  you,  and  to  her  mother." 

"Thank  you,"  repeated  the  Vicar.  "It  is 
distressing  to  me,  but  I  am  constrained  to  say 
I'm  sorry  you  saw  her,"  he  added  after  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

Anne  looked  at  him  in  silence,  and  Mr. 
Carfax  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Miss  Page,"  he  began,  "  I  am  here  to 
speak  on  a  very  painful  subject,  and  I  think 
the  sooner  I  mention  it  the  better." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Anne,  drawing  herself 
back  against  the  cushions  of  her  chair. 

"I  repeat,  I  am  sorry  you  have  seen  my 
child,  because  in  future,  I  say  it  with  great 
reluctance,  I  wish  her  acquaintance  with  you 
to  cease." 

Anne  still  waited  in  silence,  and  again  the 
Vicar  cleared  his  throat.  It  was  difficult  to 
talk  with  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  his  carefully 
prepared  speeches  seemed  a  trifle  ridiculous. 


296  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xxii. 

"  I'd  better  tell  you  the  history  of  this  affair 
from  the  beginning,"  he  broke  out  abruptly. 
"  Shortly  it  is  this.  Some  two  or  three  weeks 
ago  I  received  a  private  letter  from  a  lady 
whose  name  I  will  not  mention " 

"Madame  Didier,"  interrupted  Anne  quietly. 

The  Vicar  paused. 

"  Madame  Didier,  since  you  seem  to  know 
my  correspondent.  It  was  a  letter  written  to 
me  as  the  vicar  of  the  parish,  begging  me  to 
warn  Dr.  Dakin  against  your  influence  with 
his  wife." 

Anne  did  not  speak. 

"  Madame  Didier  gave  reasons  for  this 
interference,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment. 
"  Reasons  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  based  on 
false  and  scandalous  charges.  The  letter,  how- 
ever, so  intimately  concerned  my  friend,  that  I 
was  compelled  to  show  it  to  him.  It  was  burnt 
in  my  presence,  and  such  was  my  implicit 
confidence  in  you  that  I  wrote  a  strong,  I  may 
say  a  threatening  letter  to  the  lady,  forbidding 
her  to  circulate  libellous  reports." 

"  I  am  grateful  to  you,"  Anne  said. 

The  Vicar  glanced  at  her. 

"  I  have  since  regretted  that  letter,"  he 
added  deliberately. 

"  A  fortnight  ago,  business  called  me  to 
London,  and  I  spent  an  evening  with  my  wife's 


CH.  xxii.  ANNE   PAGE  297 

friends,  the  Lovells.  Madame  Didier,  whose 
stay  in  England  has  been  protracted,  was  with 
her  aunt.  I  did  not  know  this  when  I  went  to 
see  the  Lovells,"  he  added,  "or  I  should 
naturally  have  avoided  the  chance  of  an  un- 
pleasant encounter. 

"However,  in  spite  of  my  protestations, 
and  my  refusal  to  hear  your  name  spoken  by 
her,  the  lady  insisted,  and  to  avoid  entering 
upon  unpleasant  details,  I  may  say  at  once  that 
she  gave  me  incontrovertible  evidence  as  to  the 
truth  of  her  assertions." 

There  was  a  pause  which  Anne  did  not 
break.  She  sat  quite  still,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  I  need  not  say,"  pursued  the  Vicar  stiffly, 
"  that  though  I  was  constrained  to  offer  an 
apology  to  Madame  Didier  for  my  somewhat 
intemperate  letter,  I  repeated  my  warning  to 
her  with  regard  to  the  danger  of  spreading  this 
story." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Anne  again. 

The  Vicar  moved  uncomfortably. 

"Under  any  other  circumstances  —  had 
Madame  Didier,  I  mean,  merely  reported  gossip 
or  hearsay,  I  should  immediately  have  come 
to  you  for  an  explanation,  and  I  should  have 
accepted  your  bare  word  against  what  might  to 
others  appear  grave  suspicion.  But  unfortu- 
nately, as  I  said,  her  evidence  is  incontrovertible. 


298  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xxn. 

I  have  seen  letters.  In  short,  to  put  it  plainly, 
Miss  Page,  to  ask  for  an  explanation  from  you 
would  be  the  merest  farce.  It  therefore  be- 
comes my  painful  duty " 

"  An  explanation  of  what  ? "  asked  Anne, 
turning  to  him  with  a  deliberate  movement, 
and  again  the  Vicar  fidgeted  under  her  gaze. 

"  Of — of — a  mode  of  life  which  proves  you 
to  have  been  unworthy  of  the  position  you  have 
held  in  our  midst." 

The  Vicar  gathered  himself  together;  it  was 
time  for  the  peroration,  and  from  force  of  habit 
his  voice  grew  full  and  deep.  He  reminded 
himself  vigorously  of  the  sanctity  of  the  home, 
the  preservation  of  the  family,  and  in  sonorous 
tones  continued — 

"  You  have  been  loved  and  trusted  by  pure 
and  innocent  women.  You  have  been  esteemed 
as  a  friend  by  myself,  as  well  as  by  many  another 
upright  and  honourable  man.  And  I  say  it 
with  pain,  you  have  deceived  us.  My  own  child 
has  made  you  her  confidante " 

Anne  rose,  and  the  stream  of  the  Vicar's 
eloquence  suddenly  ran  dry. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  during  which 
he  felt  a  prey  to  greater  and  more  paralyzing 
nervousness  than  he  had  experienced  since  the 
preaching  of  his  first  sermon. 

The  pause  was  broken  by  the  opening  of 


en.  xxn.          ANNE    PAGE  299 

the  door,  and  the  appearance  of  Burks  with 
a  letter  on  a  tray. 

"This  is  sent  down  from  the  Vicarage, 
ma'am,  "she  said,  addressing  her  mistress,  "and 
the  maid  says  will  Mr.  Carfax  kindly  read  it 
at  once." 

She  handed  the  tray  to  the  Vicar,  who  took 
the  letter,  and  with  a  murmured  apology,  broke 
the  envelope.  A  note  from  his  wife  dropped 
out  first.  He  picked  it  up,  and  hurriedly 
glanced  through  its  contents. 

"/  am  wild  with  anxiety.  I  send  yo^t•  the 
enclosed,  which  has  just  come  from  Mrs,  Lovell, 
so  that  you  may  read  it  while  you  are  with  Miss 
Page.  She  may  perhaps  be  able  to  throw  some 
light  upon  the  matter.  At  any  rate,  ask  her 
advice.  She  is  so  good  and  wise" 

The  Vicar  snatched  up  the  other  letter, 
which  mechanically,  in  a  dazed  voice,  he  began 
to  read  aloud. 


DEAR  MARY, 

"  I  hasten  to  tell  you,  though  I  fear 
too  late,  of  something  I  have  just  heard  about 
your  dear  Sylvia.  She  has  signed  a  contract 
to  go  to  America  with  a  theatrical  travelling 
company,  and  I  am  told  that  she  has  already 
sailed.  The  manager  I  understand  to  be  a 


300  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xxii. 

man  of  bad  character,  as  indeed  he  must  be 
to  induce  a  girl  to  leave  England  without  her 
parents'  consent.  This  has  come  to  my  know- 
ledge in  a  roundabout  way  through  a  chorus 
girl  who  happens  to  be  related  to  my  maid.  I 
should  have  telegraphed,  but  Simpkins  has  just 
showed  me  the  announcement  of  the  company's 
departure  from  Liverpool,  and  in  that  case  a 
telegram  is  useless. 

0  All  my  sympathy,  dear.     In  haste, 
'  Your  affectionate 

"LAURA  LOVELL." 

Mr.  Carfax  dropped  the  letter. 

In  the  waning  light,  Anne  saw  that  his  face 
was  white. 

"  You  must  have  known  of  this  !  "  he  broke 
out  fiercely.  "  You  must  have  known,  I  say  !  " 

Anne  moved  swiftly  to  his  side,  and  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  whispered  hurriedly. 
"  I  did  know.  I  stopped  it.  Sylvia  is  quite 
safe,  at  Carlisle  House.  If  I  had  guessed  that 
such  news  would  reach  you,  I  would  have  told 
you  at  once.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  when  you 
came  in.  But  you  put  it  out  of  my  head,"  she 
added  simply. 

The  Vicar's  colour  had  not  returned.  He 
stood  mopping  his  forehead  slowly  with  his 


en.  xxii.  ANNE    PAGE  301 

handkerchief,  his  face  working  so  painfully  that 
Anne,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  turned  away. 

She  opened  her  writing-table,  and  rang  the 
bell. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  stammered 
her  companion. 

"  Send  a  note  to  your  wife.  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  her  anxiety." 

"True,"  murmured  the  Vicar.  "You  are 
very  kind.  It's  like  you — to  think  of  every- 
thing," he  added,  still  in  a  dazed  voice. 

He  began  to  pace  the  room  with  uneven 
steps. 

"If  the  maid  has  gone,  run  up  as  quickly  as 
you  can  to  the  Vicarage  with  this  note,"  said 
Anne,  sealing  the  envelope,  as  Burks  entered. 

"  She's  still  here,  ma'am." 

"  Then  give  it  to  her,  and  tell  her  to  go  at 
once,  please,  Burks.  It's  important.  Don't 
keep  her  a  moment  longer  talking." 

The  maid  disappeared,  and  Anne  lighted 
the  candles  on  the  mantelpiece,  quietly,  one  by 
one. 

"  You  need  have  no  anxiety,"  she  said 
without  looking  at  the  Vicar.  "  Sylvia  has 
been  very  imprudent,  but  she  realizes  it,  and 
is  sorry.  She  had  arranged  with  me  to  come 
home  and  tell  you  all  about  it,  as  soon  as  I  had 
first  spoken  to  you.  She  seemed  to  think  that 


302  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xxn. 

I  might  have  some — some  little  influence. 
But  I  must  now  leave  her  to  tell  her  own  story. 
I  only  want  you  to  understand  that  she's  safe. 
I  went  to  my  solicitor  about  the  matter,  and  as 
she  is  under  age,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  settling 
the  whole  affair." 

"  But — this  man  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Carfax 
in  an  unsteady  voice.  "  The  man  Mrs.  Lovell 
mentions  ?  " 

For  the  first  time  she  glanced  at  him,  and 
saw  the  fear  in  his  eyes. 

"Be  quite  easy.  Sylvia  had  no  idea  of 
any  evil  intention  on  the  man's  part.  She  is 
only  utterly  ignorant  and  inexperienced.  She 
is  one  of  the  pure  and  innocent  woman  you 
mentioned  just  now." 

Her  voice  was  gentle,  and  had  not  a  trace 
of  bitterness. 

The  Vicar  continued  for  a  moment  his 
perambulation  of  the  room. 

Then  he  stopped  abruptly  and  raised  his 
head. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  in  a  husky  tone.  "  I 

owe  you  a  debt  I  can  never  repay.  I "  he 

hesitated  painfully.  "  I  wish  to  God "  he 

broke  out  again,  and  again  paused.  She  looked 
at  him  steadily. 

All  the  pompous  self-importance  had  died 
out  of  his  face  ;  all  the  arrogance  of  the  priest 


CH.  xxn.  ANNE    PAGE  303 

who  denounces  the  sinner.  His  was  the  very 
human  face  of  a  man  still  gasping  with  relief 
from  deadly  fear,  still  unable  to  believe  that  the 
threatened  danger  is  over.  And  with  this  ex- 
pression of  scarcely  assured  safety  there  was 
mingled  real  sorrow,  a  look  of  real  affection  for 
the  woman  to  whom  he  owed  his  escape  from  a 
crushing  blow. 

"You  spoke  of  an  explanation,"  said  Anne 
in  a  low  voice.  "  A  moment  ago  I  should  have 
asked  you  to  leave  me,  because  of  the  manner 
in  which  you  spoke  of  it. 

"  Now  I  have  changed  my  mind,  and  I 
think  I  should  like  to  give  you  an  explanation 
— my  explanation." 

She  was  still  standing,  still  looking  at  him 
steadily. 

"  You  were  kind  enough  to  say  that  people 
here  had  loved  and  trusted  me.  I  am  glad  if 
that  is  the  case — very  glad."  She  waited  a 
moment. 

"  If  as  you  say  they  have  been  good  enough 
to  give  me  their  love  and  confidence,  it  is 
because  I  have  understood  them  ;  because  they 
have  never  been  afraid  to  tell  me  their  inmost 
thoughts.  Well,  you  will  not  believe  me,  per- 
haps,— that  power  of  understanding  would 
never  have  been  mine  but  for  the  '  mode  of 
]ife '  to  which  you  have  alluded. 


304  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xxn. 

"Twenty  years  ago,  Mr.  Carfax,  I  was  a 
self-doubting,  colourless  woman.  My  youth, 
as  I  thought,  was  past.  It  had  brought  me 
nothing.  No  love,  no  human  experience,  no 
joys,  no  very  deep  sorrows  even.  Nothing  but 
the  grey  hopeless  depression  of  a  woman  who 
has  never  taken  her  part  in  the  world,  who  has 
always  stood  outside,  who  knows  nothing  of 
life ;  the  sort  of  woman  who  ignorant  to  begin 
with,  grows  narrower  and  more  prejudiced  as 
the  years  pass,  till  at  last  in  the  bitter  sense 
of  the  word,  she  is  an  old  maid  by  nature, 
useless  as  a  friend,  helpless  as  a  comforter, 
of  no  account  in  a  world  of  men  and  women 
she  cannot  understand. 

"Well,  before  that  happened  to  me,  before 
I  was  old  in  heart  at  least,  I  met  a  man  who 
loved  me,  and  whom  I  loved.  I  might  have 
married  him.  I  chose  not  to  marry  him,  be- 
cause  "  She  smiled  a  little.  "  I  need  not 

trouble  you  with  my  reasons.  They  seemed 
good  reasons  to  me,  and  I  have  never  regretted 
them.  I  lived  with  him  for  three  years.  The 
memory  of  those  three  years  has  lasted  with 
me  to  this  day,  and  has  made  me  a  woman 
so  proud  and  happy  that  if  my  deep  content 
has  overflowed,  and  reached  the  lives  of  others, 
it  is  no  credit  to  me.  I  simply  can't  help 
caring  for  people,  because  by  the  mercy  of 


CH.  xxii.  ANNE    PAGE  305 

Heaven,  I  have  loved  and  been  loved.  Nothing 
else,  for  me  at  least,  would  have  made  that 
understanding  and  caring  possible.  Not  the 
money  that  came  to  me,  nor  the  opportunities 
it  afforded  for  what  is  called  '  doing  good.'  It 
was  a  change  in  me,  that  was  needed,  a  personal 
experience  of  loving  and  suffering.  Well !  I 
have  loved  and  I  have  suffered,  and  now  I 
understand. 

"  That's  my  little  story.  It's  a  story  I 
would  not  have  told  you  ten  minutes  ago. 
But — well,  you  made  me  feel  just  now  that  you 
were  human. 

"  Don't  imagine  you  see  before  you  the 
sinner  that  repenteth.  She  has  never  repented. 
She  never  will  repent,  though  it's  an  old  white- 
haired  woman  who  is  talking — to  a  man  years 
younger  than  herself !  " 

Her  eyes  met  his,  and  beneath  their  smiling 
gaze,  half  wise,  half  whimsical,  the  Vicar 
dropped  his  own,  and  reddened  like  a  school- 
boy. 

The  gentle  reproof,  implied  rather  than 
spoken,  went  home. 

Suddenly,  in  the  presence  of  this  dignified 
gracious  woman,  he  felt  raw  and  awkward, 
very  young,  more  than  a  little  ashamed. 
He  was  confused  moreover,  with  the  sense 
that  there  existed  possibly  whole  realms  of 

x 


3o6  ANNE    PAGE  CH.  xxn. 

experience  which  no  code  of  morals  he  had 
ever  preached  seemed  adequate  to  cover. 

Here  was  a  woman  who  certainly  possessed 
the  fairest  of  the  Christian  virtues.  She  was 
gentle,  tolerant,  generous  (with  a  twinge  of 
compunction  he  realized  how  great  a  part  the 
anticipated  loss  of  her  donations  had  played 
in  his  reflections  during  the  walk  from  the 
Vicarage  to  Fairholme  Court).  She  was 
patient,  longsuffering, — the  Vicar  ran  through 
the  whole  gamut  of  spiritual  gifts,  and  acknow- 
ledged her  richly  endowed. 

Could  it  be  that  there  were  other  paths  to 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  than  the  strait  way 
and  the  narrow  gate  that  alone  were  said  to 
lead  to  salvation  ? 

The  very  useful  brain  of  Mr.  Carfax,  un- 
accustomed to  be  exercised  in  unusual  direc- 
tions, began  to  feel  the  strain,  and  its  possessor 
wisely  took  the  hint,  and  abandoned  the  fatigu- 
ing labour  of  original  research. 

In  any  case  Miss  Page  was  a  charming 
woman,  and  by  however  amazing  process  the 
result  had  been  achieved,  a  good  one  also. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  with  a  sudden  frank 
movement,  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said  simply.  "  You — • 
you  have  shown  me  I  had  no  right  to  judge. 
I  beg  your  pardon." 


CH.  xxii.  ANNE   PAGE  307 

Anne  put  her  hand  into  his  with  a  very 
sweet  smile. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  she  replied,  "  you  must 
do  what  you  think  right,  and  Dymfield  will  not 
be  behind  the  judgment  of  most  of  the  world 
in  this  matter.  You  know  I  love  the  place, 
but  I  can't  stay  here  when  the  people  no  longer 
look  upon  me  as  a  friend.  Well,  the  world  is 
wide,  and  fortunately  for  me  I'm  not  a  poor 
woman." 

"  You  mustn't  leave  us  !  You  won't  leave 
us ! "  begged  the  Vicar.  "  There  will  be  no 
occasion.  The  position  is  unchanged.  The 
only  two  people  who  know  anything  of — of 
the  matter,  are  your  friends.  Even  if  through 
malice  or  carelessness  a  breath  of  scandal 
should  reach  others,  surely  you  can  trust  us  to 
treat  the  rumour  with  the "  He  hesitated 

"  With  the  contempt  it  doesn't  deserve  ?  " 
suggested  Anne  gently. 

Greatly  to  his  surprise,  and  somewhat  to 
his  horror,  the  Reverend  George  Carfax  was 
betrayed  into  an  answering  smile. 

He  hastened  to  efface  it,  but  the  deed  was 
done. 

"  And  Sylvia  ?  "  asked  Anne  tentatively. 
"  I  wanted  her  to  stay  with  me  for  a  few  days. 
You  have  only  to  say  if  you  would  rather  she 
did  not,  and  I  won't  ask  her." 


308  ANNE  PAGE  CH.  xxn. 

"  If  after  all  the  trouble  she  has  given  you, 
Sylvia  will  be  welcome,  I  can  answer  for  her 
delight,"  returned  Mr.  Carfax  promptly. 

Anne  put  out  her  hand  with  an  impulsive 
gesture. 

"  You  are  quite  a  dear  !  "  she  observed,  and 
her  sudden  smile  still  further  illuminated  the 
dusky  corners  of  the  Vicar's  strictly  limited 
imagination. 

The  entrance  of  Burks  with  the  tea-things 
gave  him  a  moment  to  recover  from  the  shock 
of  a  series  of  mental  and  emotional  upheavals 
to  which  he  was  unaccustomed. 

"You  will  stay,  of  course?"  begged  Anne. 
"  My  note  to  your  wife  was  quite  explicit,"  she 
added.  "  She  won't  be  anxious  now." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Carfax.  "  I  want 
to  hear  particulars  about  Sylvia,  and  I  feel  I 
should  be  all  the  better  for  a  cup  of  tea." 

Five  minutes  later,  Mrs.  Carfax  entered  a 
room  bright  with  fire  and  candle-light,  in  which 
her  husband  sat  comfortably  ensconced  in  an 
arm-chair  opposite  to  Miss  Page,  who  was 
passing  him  hot  cakes  of  a  delicious  crispness. 

Anne  went  quickly  across  the  room. 

"  It's  quite  right.  Don't  worry,"  she  hast- 
ened to  say,  as  she  kissed  her  visitor.  "  I'm 
just  telling  your  husband  all  about  it." 

"  Sylvia  must  come  home !  "  declared  her 


CH.  xxii.  ANNE    PAGE  309 

mother,  after  Anne's  recital.  Her  hand  was 
still  trembling  as  she  put  down  her  tea-cup. 
"  She's  not  fit  to  be  left  alone  in  a  great  wicked 
city.  I  always  said  to  George  it  was  madness 
to  let  her  go  away  from  us ! " 

"It's  so  difficult  to  get  women  to  take  broad 
views,"  complained  the  Vicar,  turning  to  Anne, 
"  It  requires  the  masculine  mind,  free  from 
prejudice  and  indifferent  to  common  opinion, 
to  see  the  wider  outlook." 

Anne  laid  her  hand  on  his  wife's  arm. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Carfax,  do  let  her  finish  her 
training,"  she  urged.  "  The  child  acknowledges 
her  foolishness.  I  quite  agree  that  she  ought 
not  to  be  alone,  and  before  you  came  in,  I 
was  suggesting  a  plan  to  your  husband. 

"  Let  her  go  to  my  brother  and  his  wife. 
They  lost  their  little  girl  some  years  ago,  and 
Alice  has  always  longed  for  a  daughter.  She's 
such  a  nice  kind  little  woman,  and  she  would 
treat  Sylvia  as  her  own  child.  I  spoke  to  her 
of  the  possibility  of  this,  before  I  left  London, 
and  she  was  delighted  with  the  idea." 

"It  would  be  a  splendid  thing  for  her, 
Mary,  if  it  can  be  arranged.  It's  so  like  Miss 
Page  to  have  thought  of  such  a  plan." 

Mrs.  Carfax  hesitated. 

"We  must  think  about  it.  I  wouldn't  give 
my  consent  for  her  to  go  anywhere  else.  But 


310  ANNE  PAGE  CH.XXII. 

if  it's  a  case  of  your  relations,  dear,  it's  different. 
I  should  feel  safe  and  happy  about  her,  of 
course.  We  must  talk  about  it,  George." 

Anne  leant  back  against  her  sofa  cushions 
with  a  satisfied  expression. 

When  her  visitors  rose  to  go,  she  followed 
them  to  the  door. 

While  his  wife  was  being  helped  into  her 
goloshes  by  Burks,  outside  in  the  hall,  the 
Vicar  lingered  a  moment  to  hold  her  hand  in  a 
tight  grasp. 

"  I  can  never  thank  you  enough,"  he  mur- 
mured. "You  are  the  best  woman  I  ever 
met,"  he  added,  looking  her  straight  in  the 
face. 

Anne  flushed  a  little ;  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  look  for- 
ward to  having  Sylvia  here  next  week." 

When  the  hall  door  had  closed,  she  drew 
a  deep  breath  of  exhaustion  and  relief. 

She  had  won  peace  with  honour.  She 
knew  it,  and  was  thankful.  But  she  was  glad 
to  be  alone. 

She  walked  round  the  room,  bending  over 
the  pots  of  lilies  of  the  valley,  touching  the 
waxen  bells  of  the  hyacinths  with  gentle  fingers. 
They  had  been  grown  for  her  home-coming, 


CH.  xxii.  ANNE   PAGE  311 

and  they  welcomed  her  delicately.  She  stirred 
the  fire  to  a  brighter  blaze,  and  smiled  to  see 
its  glow  spreading  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the 
room. 

Never  had  her  home  seemed  so  sweet,  so 
inviting,  so  restful. 

"  It  would  have  broken  my  heart  to  leave 
it !  "  she  thought  with  sudden  conviction. 

She  looked  at  the  bookcases  filled  with 
books  all  the  more  precious,  because  for  three 
months  she  had  not  touched  them. 

Finally  she  reached  for  a  volume  on  one 
of  the  upper  shelves,  and  taking  it  to  the  sofa, 
turned  to  a  poem  she  loved. 

"  Mire  des  souvenirs,  maitresse  des  mattresses, 
O  tot,  tous  ntes  plaisirs  /  O  tot,  tons  mes  devoirs  ! 
Tu  te  rappelleras  la  beaute"  des  caresses} 
La  douceur  du  foyer  et  le  charms  des  soirs, 
Mere  des  souvenirs,  mattresse  des  mattresses  ! 

"  Les  soirs  illumines  par  Fardeur  du  charbon, 
Et  les  soirs  au  balcon,  voile's  de  vapeurs  roses. 
Que  ton  sein  nfe"tait  doux  !  que  ton  coeur  n?e"tait  bon  I 
Nous  avons  dit  souvent  d'impMssables  choses, 
Les  soirs  illumines  par  Vardeur  du  charbon.n 

Anne  let  the  book  slip  into  her  lap.  "  Nous 
avons  dit  souvent  d'imperis sables  choses"  she 
repeated  softly. 

It  was  of  these  "  imperishable  things  "  she 
was  thinking,  the  things  of  the  spirit,  that 


312  ANNE   PAGE  CH.  xxn. 

persist  when  as  with  her  the  desire  of  the  flesh 
is  dead,  and  the  lust  of  the  eyes.  The  im- 
perishable things  that  last  into  the  evening  of 
life,  when  the  stars  come  out,  and  ever  nearer 
and  nearer  draw  the  "  murmurs  and  scents  of 
the  infinite  sea." 


XXIII 

IT  was  two  years  before  Francois  Fontenelle 
re-visited  Fairholme  Court.  Again  it  was 
June,  and  Anne  had  taken  him  to  the  garden, 
full  of  pride  to  show  him  her  roses  in  the 
height  of  their  beauty. 

They  strolled  round  its  paths  talking  of  a 
thousand  things,  and  finally  sat  down  under 
the  arch,  over  which  there  poured  a  cascade  of 
snowy  bloom.  The  table  in  front  of  the  bench 
was  littered  with  papers,  which  Fra^ois  began 
idly  to  examine. 

"  The  New  Thought  /"  he  exclaimed,  hold- 
ing up  one  of  the  leaflets  between  his  finger 
and  thumb.  "  What  on  earth  are  you  doing 
with  this  latter  day  product  ?  " 

Anne  laughed.  "  A  strenuous  young  thing 
who  is  spending  her  holiday  in  the  village 
brought  a  heap  of  papers  this  morning,  and 
begged  me  to  read  them.  She  said  it  was 
scandalous  that  such  an  intelligent  woman  as 
I  appeared  to  her,  should  be  ignorant  of  the 
'movement,'"  she  added  demurely. 

3*3 


314  ANNE    PAGE  en.  xxm. 

"  Whatever  the  modern  young  woman  lacks, 
it  isn't  cheek,"  he  returned. 

"  Well !  What  do  you  think  of  the  '  no  pro- 
perty '  idea  in  the  eternally  boring  sex  question  ? 
Let  me  see,  there  are  to  be  state  babies,  aren't 
there  ?  Have  state  lovers  been  suggested  yet, 
or  is  that  a  figment  of  my  imagination  ?  " 

Anne  sighed.  "  Perhaps  I'm  too  old  for 
it,"  she  said.  "  I  know  I  don't  understand  it. 
It  all  seems  to  me  so  terribly  business-like,  and 
I  was  never  a  business  woman." 

Frangois  laughed.  "  I  should  as  soon  ex- 
pect one  of  these  roses  to  start  company  pro- 
moting." 

"One  thing  I  feel  quite  sure  about,"  she 
went  on,  drawing  her  lace  shawl  round  her 
shoulders.  "  The  men  and  women  who  write 
some  of  these  letters  have  never  loved." 

"  Love  has  gone  out  of  fashion  in  England, 
and  the  new  wisdom  has  taken  its  place," 
observed  Frangois.  "Its  professors  are  gentle- 
men who  live  on  grape  nuts,  and  are  occupied 
municipally.  They  don't  believe  in  love,  partly 
because  a  diet  of  grape  nuts  is  not  conducive 
to  the  emotion,  partly  because  they  are  afraid 
of  disagreeing  with  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  You 
have  saved  me  from  belonging  to  the  latter 
class,  but  only  as  a  brand  is  snatched  from 
the  burning." 


CH.  xxm.          ANNE   PAGE  315 

"The  simile  is  ill-chosen,"  declared  Anne 
serenely.  "There's  no  fire  about  any  of  the 
new  doctrines.  They  are  all  eminently  cool, 
calculating  and  dull.  Dull  as  ditch-water,  and 
quite  as  appetizing." 

Fra^ois  smiled.  "You  are  a  very  old- 
fashioned  woman,  Anne,"  he  declared,  "and 
the  sight  of  these  things  near  you  is  absurd, 
and  even  indecent." 

He  swept  them  from  the  table. 

"  Go  and  fetch  your  Herrick,  and  read 
me  how  roses  first  came  red,  and  lilies 
white." 

"My  lord  shall  be  obeyed — another  time," 
said  Anne  laughing. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Dakin  ? "  asked  Francois 
suddenly,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

Anne  was  engaged  in  pushing  the  end  of  a 
trailing  green  branch  through  one  of  the  spaces 
in  the  lattice  work. 

"  She  and  the  baby,  who  is  six  weeks  old 
to-day,  are  away  on  a  visit  to  her  mother. 
She  is  very  well,  and  exceedingly  happy,"  she 
added  after  a  moment  spent  in  arranging  the 
branch  to  her  satisfaction. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

She  turned  to  him.  "I  believe  you  are, 
Francois." 

"I'm  also  glad  to  hear  she's  away,  since 


316  ANNE   PAGE  en.  xxm. 

because  of  that  circumstance  presumably  I  was 
honoured  with  an  invitation  to-day." 

"Why  haven't  I  seen  you  for  so  long?" 
inquired  Anne  irrelevantly. 

"  I  was  afraid  to  come,"  he  said,  looking 
at  her  with  a  smile. 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  not  because  I  dreaded  a  scene  with 
you.  Have  you  ever  made  a  scene  in  your 
life,  Anne  ?  You  ought  to  have  done  it  once 
at  least,  to  prove  your  affinity  with  the  sex 
you  adorn.  But  I  don't  believe  you  ever  have. 
No.  I  was  afraid  of  your  eyes." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  my  eyes  ? "  she 
asked,  with  a  smile  concealed  in  them. 

"  Anne  Page,  if  you're  going  to  flirt  with 
me  I  give  you  due  warning  that  I'm  a  poor 
weak  man,  and  I  can't  answer  for  the  conse- 
quences." 

She  laughed.  "  The  baby  is  a  darling,  and 
I'm  its  godmother.  They've  called  her  Anne." 

"  They  may,  but  they  needn't  flatter  them- 
selves she'll  ever  be  as  attractive  as  Anne 
Page." 

"Her  father  already  thinks  her  the  most 
lovely  creature  in  the  world — except  his  wife." 

"  And  how  are  all  the  other  worthies  ?  Still 
at  your  feet,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  They  are  all  charming  to  me.     My  little 


CH.  xxm.  ANNE    PAGE  317 

friend  Sylvia,  the  Vicar's  daughter,  sang  at  her 
first  concert  the  other  night,  and  had  a  great 
success.  The  vicarage  is  standing  on  its  head 
with  pride,  in  consequence." 

"And  the  pastoral  life  still  amuses  you  ?" 

"Very  much." 

"  Wonderful  woman ! " 

"  Dear  Francis,  why  not  ? "  she  asked. 
"  You  know  I  am  a  very  simple  person." 

"  Yes.  Though  you  were  once  the  queen 
of  quite  a  brilliant  salon." 

She  was  silent. 

"When  are  you  coming  over  to  see  your 
picture  ?  " 

"  This  autumn."  For  a  moment  she  paused. 
"  You  know  my  wishes,  Fra^ois  ?  I  have  left 
Rene's  pictures  to  the  Luxembourg.  The 
two  we  like  best — you  know  them — are  to 
hang  on  either  side  of  the  portrait.  It's  in  my 
will,  of  course." 

He  smoked  a  moment  without  speaking. 

"  I  wonder  if  he'll  come  and  look  at  them  ?  " 
he  said  at  last.  "  I  think  he  will,  and  you'll 
smile  at  him  out  of  the  portrait." 

"  I'm  so  glad  he  liked  it,"  she  answered 
softly,  after  a  long  pause. 

"He  only  saw  it  once.  I  never  dared  show 
it  to  him  again.  That's  why  I  put  it  away." 

The  birds  had  begun  their  evening  song, 


3i8  ANNE  PAGE  CH.  xxm. 

and  the  garden  rang  with  the  voices  of  black- 
birds and  thrushes. 

"Well!  I  must  get  back  to  The  Chase" 
declared  Fransois,  glancing  at  his  watch.  *'  I 
shall  be  late  for  dinner  as  it  is.  This  is  good- 
bye till  September.  Not  a  moment  later  mind, 
and  then  you  will  stay  in  Paris  a  decent  time  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  as  she  got  up  and  stood 
for  a  moment  embowered  in  the  roses,  her  lace 
shawl  hanging  from  her  arms,  her  figure  still 
beautiful  and  gracious. 

"  The  gods  have  granted  you  the  gift  of 
eternal  youth,  Anne,"  he  declared.  "  I  want  to 
paint  another  portrait." 

She  laughed,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  There  will  be  no  more  portraits,"  she 
said. 

She  went  with  him  as  far  as  a  little  gate 
which  gave  upon  the  meadows,  through  which 
a  field  path  led  to  The  Chase. 

After  he  had  gone  she  wandered  into  the 
lavender-garden,  and  in  the  gathering  summer 
twilight  paced  the  path  between  the  grey-green 
borders. 

In  the  west,  the  sky  was  still  flushed  with 
sunset.  The  air,  so  quiet  that  not  a  leaf 
trembled,  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  flowers. 

Anne  walked  slowly,  her  mind  occupied  with 


CH.  xxm.  ANNE    PAGE  319 

pleasant  trifles.  She  decided  that  the  lilies  in 
the  south  border  must  this  autumn  be  divided. 
She  must  tell  Davis  to  plant  more  daffodils  in 
the  orchard  under  the  apple  trees.  There  was 
the  village  children's  treat  to  be  considered,  and 
she  must  not  forget  to  talk  it  over  with  the 
Vicar.  Suddenly  she  remembered  that  Dr. 
Dakin  was  coming  in  to  smoke  his  pipe  and 
talk.  Madge  and  the  baby  were  returning  on 
Thursday.  He  would  therefore  be  in  excellent 
spirits. 

The  roses  on  the  hedge  round  the  sundial 
breathed  a  sweet  strong  fragrance  into  the 
dusk. 

Anne  picked  one  of  them,  and  tucked  it  into 
the  front  of  her  gown,  before  she  turned  towards 
the  house. 


THE   END 


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As  Ye  Have  Sown 

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Captain  Amyas 

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